She lies on her back on Metcalf’s futon in death-like sleep, unnaturally still, her face smooth and pale as wax, arms at her sides, palms up. Every once in a while she mutters something incomprehensible.
Matt can’t relax. After they found her they got her back to Lyndon’s house, and she drank glass after glass of cold water and slept for two hours, and then Lyndon helped her shower. She was returning to normal, though she still wasn’t saying much, and both he and Lyndon thought she should be checked by a doctor. Bronwyn was downright fierce in her refusal. I just need to sleep a little more, she insisted, which is exactly what she’s been doing since they got back to Metcalf’s.
He has the feeling he has custody of a rare bird, some endangered species of great importance to the world, entrusted to him. It is his charge to keep her safe. He needs to make sure she’s still breathing. He can’t leave her side or take his eyes off her. And he has an odd feeling that her skin is emitting something, rays of light or energy or—it’s a crazy thought but he wishes he had something like a Geiger counter to test his hunch.
A text comes in from Lyndon—How’s she doing?—A movie star! Who would think?!—Still sleeping, he texts back. He’s glad Metcalf won’t be back until almost midnight. It is shortly after noon now.
He takes a leak, staring into the foamy stream of his urine, wondering what he should do next and trying to remember when he last ate. His entire life has changed in a matter of days, and now a new agenda is taking shape in this unfamiliar city without his consciously willing it. He must stand by, see how things play out, hope for the best—what else can he do? He brought this on himself. Hearing movement in the living room, he zips up and hurries out. She’s crouching by the side of the futon, pawing for something in her backpack. She looks up at him, eyes engorged with such alarm he stops where he is.
“You’re awake,” he says quietly.
The medley of sounds, distant and near, must be parsed. The fire’s gnashing. The ocean’s murmur. A hawk’s caviling cry as it comes in for its prey. Closer, in this room, a man’s breathing, incomprehensible words that match the percussion of his heart.
How can he be here, this man with the unusual beret of hair, in this place so far from where she first saw him? She squints, a substitute for the questions she might pose. Words still evade her.
“Are you alright?” he says. He’s keeping his distance, as if she might bite, as if he, too, sees her as the creature she feels herself to be. He isn’t unkind though, only curious.
“I won’t bite,” she says, finding a voice, laughing a little. “My phone. I think I might have lost it.” She resumes her search. There isn’t time to waste, not with the other fire still on the loose.
“Can I do something to help?”
She hears, but can’t respond. The rhythm of conversation is alien and stilted. The fire’s rasp dominates her again, its seduction magnetic and tyrannical. Ah-ha. She palms the phone and holds it up for him to see. They both smile. His smile is boosting. It singles her out and carries conspiracy.
“Could you drive me to my car?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She hesitates. Then, what the hell. “There’s another fire out there, still burning.”
“Shouldn’t you rest some more?”
“There isn’t time.”
She watches his face play with resistance. She isn’t sure what he knows, what he has seen. She shuffles memories of events that have no obvious linear order. No one was there with her at the fire. But later—he was one of the ones who found her.
“What do you know?” she asks, a question that enfolds a multitude of questions like the bundled strands of DNA. How did you come to be here in this city? Where are we? Do you understand what I do?
She is suddenly lively, fluttering with nervous energy, apparently recovered. What a relief. When they first found her unconscious on the ground, on the edge of the charred woods, he thought she might be dead. It took several minutes before her eyes opened, and she couldn’t speak. Now she stands in apparent health and brushes herself off, a clean floral scent wafting from her loose hair. Her expression is unmistakable. Can I trust you? it asks. He has not formally explained himself, which was a primary reason for coming here, but all of what he would try to explain happened in a past that holds little relevance now.
“Well?” she says.
“All I know is that something unusual is happening here.” He smiles faintly. “That’s about it.”
“Are you with me?”
“I guess so. Yes. Sure.”