Starlight Dancing

It took a long time for the noise to attract Zack’s attention—even longer to resolve itself into anything meaningful.

Mr. O’Neil? Mr. O’Neil? Can you hear me?

He was still alive. Not a happy surprise.

Disoriented, he gathered his flickering consciousness together and opened his eyes. As he’d feared, he was surrounded by a variety of high-tech appliances. The overpowering smell of antiseptics placed him in a hospital.

A face appeared in his line of sight—a professionally cheerful face.

You had us worried for a while, Mr. O’Neil, but you’re doing fine, now.

When he only stared in reply she patted his shoulder and said, Just rest. You’ll feel better when you wake up again. It seemed particularly stupid of her to wake him only to tell him to go back to sleep. But the effort of thinking was too great to sustain, so he let go of wakefulness and fell back into drugged slumber.

° ° °

She was an exceedingly plain woman. Her white coat had Psychiatric Services stitched on the breast, and Zack assumed she’d gone into psychiatric practice as a form of revenge against an unkind world. She dragged a chair close to the bed, losing little time with diplomacy.

They tell me you’re refusing your meds, and won’t eat. Why is that?

He studied her for a few seconds before shaking his head. You didn’t do me a favor by bringing me back when my heart stopped.

Why not, Mr. O’Neil? She showed no reaction to his words.

How like a psychiatrist. Never say what you think, just ask questions that make the patient say it for you. But two could play at that, so he answered with a question of his own. What do I have to live for?

Before she could answer he snapped, "And don’t ask me trick questions, lady. Just give me an answer. I’m old...I feel like shit...and I’m not in the mood for games."

That rated a raised eyebrow, and, At least tell me why you want to die, Mr. O’Neil, so I have something to work with.

I don’t want to die. But when my heart gave out it was my time. It still is. I don’t have a reason to live, and that’s not the same thing as wanting to die.

No?

No...it’s not. Despite himself, she’d drawn him into discussing his reasons for refusing food and medication. But what else was there to do but talk to her or stare at the ceiling? He blew out a breath in resignation. She’d have her way after all.

Believe me, Doctor, I’m not suicidal, I just don’t have anything to live for. I’ve been waiting to die for nearly a year—since they told me my heart wasn’t repairable—but then, when my time was finally up, you people stepped in and took it away from me.

At his use of the term, you people, she unbent enough to say, I’m Dr. Malvern, Mr. O’Neil. Clarice Malvern. She still sat ramrod straight on the edge of her chair.

Telling her to go to hell was an option, but in the end, protests were futile. The drugs were added to the bags that dripped nourishment into his arms—rendering his defiance symbolic, only. And it made little sense to do battle with the woman.

I’ve lived nearly seventy years, Doctor, and I’ve done everything I ever wanted to do. I built a successful business three separate times, once out of boredom after I retired. I’m still bored. More so, since my wife died. He glanced over at the doctor, to find her leaning forward, interest in what he said, apparent. Deciding for the hundredth time to stop judging people by appearances, he went on.

Amanda was both my wife and best friend. Without her, there’s no one and I’m just coasting.

Friends? she offered. Children? Business? Surely there’s someone?

That brought a long sigh. No. We had no children, I’ve sold my business, and there’s no family left that matters.

He shifted in the bed, easing himself into a less uncomfortable position before saying. I have friends, doctor. I’m just tired, and it’s far too late to think of starting a new life.

His voice was empty as he said, It doesn’t matter, though. No matter what you’ve done, I have a bad heart, and unless you were stupid enough to give me a transplant, it’s still a bad heart.

Dr. Malvern studied the man on the bed. He was stronger than he thought. His medical history, other than his heart problems, was unblemished. It was his state of mind that worried her. Still, this wasn’t a good time to tell him he no longer had a heart.

° ° ° °

Eight Months Later

More eggs? What the hell is going on? Zack frowned at the fossilized eggs. This was the third grouping he’d found as he traced the course of whatever had carved the gully. Ruler straight, it had probably been cut by a meteorite, eons ago. But if so, the thing had come in at one hell of a shallow angle.

He squatted far down, arms wrapped around his knees and lost in thought. Millions of years before, during the time of the great lizards, a ball of flaming rock had come to Earth at this spot, tearing out a swatch of wilderness and creating a nesting site for a variety of fauna. The stony lumps clustered at his feet were the result of that celestial accident, but they weren’t the cause of his introspection—the meteorite was. There was no excitement in finding more petrified eggs. A meteorite, though, that, he didn’t have.

Coming to his feet, he pulled down the brim of his old-fashioned cowboy hat, shading his eyes. He gazed out over the wasteland before him, a humped vista of dry and useless earth, fit only for growing chaparral and cactus. It had been carved and twisted again and again, by water, weather, and even the endless slow-motion dance of the Earth itself. Since the time of the dinosaur, the land had seen both freshwater seas and the rock-gouging creep of glaciers. Before that, the country to the west had tilted skyward to form the Great Western mountain ranges, spilling its soil onto this area, only to have most of it scrubbed away by the slow passage of centuries. The land had lately known both Indians and settlers. Neither stayed. Neither learned to love it. Now, the land knew only loneliness and silence, save for Zack’s occasional visits.

But he wasn’t searching for the remains of the distant past. He’d come there to die. After nearly forty years of marriage, finally ready to retire and show his wife the world, Amanda was stolen by the Covid-armed angel of death, leaving him with little reason to live. His own heart died soon after—a result of losing her, he liked to think—only to be replaced by a thing of tubing and motors, riding his left shoulder like a pet beast, humming and thumping to itself as it simulated the pulsing of his lost heart. An experimental model, not yet approved for installation within the abdominal cavity like the production model—soon to come.

Three months after surgery he turned his car west, looking for solitude, and for a place where an old man could die in peace. He found it in a deserted ranch house, twenty miles from the nearest town, on the eastern edge of the American desert.

He made a deal with himself: he would charge and care for the unit, not go out into the desert and wait for the batteries to die, as he’d planned. Instead, he’d wait for fate to intervene. It had been over six months since he left the hospital, and since the unit had been serviced. He might have a day, a month, or a year. But whatever time he had was out of his hands.

Shaking his head in frustration, he left the latest find of stony eggs and went to check the roadside strata for the fifth time. Could the stopping point of the thing be calculated? Perhaps it stopped close enough to the road to dig from there? Given that the meteorite had landed at a shallow angle—in what was soft dirt at that time—if it hadn’t struck anything solid before giving up its velocity and coming to rest, it might be in good condition. Recovering it would be satisfying, personally, and make a nice gift for the local museum, as would the eggs—a thank-you for the patience shown him as he learned the area’s history. A plaque indicating that Zack O’Neil had been the one to donate it, and another for the eggs, would also be a nice bit of immortality.

But as it with each of the other four times he checked, no trace of the gully showed in the strata lines. In some ways, not finding the track was good news. The thing hadn’t been removed with the debris when those building the road removed a section of hillside. The bad news was that the final resting place was an unknown distance inside the hill. Still, since he’d found no fragments in the gully, perhaps it was intact. And if he could calculate its final resting point, perhaps tunneling in from the road was a possibility.

But shadows were lengthening, and his tape measure was at the house, which meant it was quitting time.

Deciding to walk the half-mile home via the lightly used road, he began walking, lost in thought until trash lying by the side of the road caught his attention. It appeared to be a pile of discarded clothing.

About to kick it further off the road, he froze.

That’s not trash.... Christ, it’s a body. He dropped to his knees, hoping he’d been mistaken. But it wasn’t discarded clothing. It was a human body, crumpled together like a discarded doll.

He knelt there for some time, shaking his head in negation, wishing desperately to be mistaken—wishing it was a mannequin, left as a hoax. Finally, he accepted it for what it was and reached out to give the shoulder a little shake. When there was no response he shifted the body, bringing the face of a young woman into view.

Shit. But the tiny motion of a pulse at her throat said death hadn’t yet claimed her, though the pulse was quick, and her breathing rapid and shallow. Without help, she wouldn’t last much longer.

Almost certainly she needed treatment for heatstroke, but for now, he could do little but give her the remaining water from the canteen, then get the car and take her to the hospital.

Cradling her upper body on his lap, he wet his handkerchief from the canteen and placed the end of it between her lips—not something he’d willingly place in the mouth of a stranger, given that the water would contain sweat and dust from the handkerchief—but pouring water into her mouth in her present condition could well choke her. And in the end, the salts from the sweat might be beneficial.

After a moment, she began to suck at the moisture, as a baby does a nipple. He squeezed the handkerchief, moving the moisture toward the corner at which she drank. When that was gone he re-wet the handkerchief and repeated the operation. Finally, he applied the canteen to her lips, forcing her to drink slowly, while she fought to upend it and pour it into her mouth. It appeared she’d recover.

He sat in the dust for a time, marveling that she could weigh so little, watching for a car that might save a hurried trip to get his own. Abruptly, she thrust the canteen away. Her eyes were open.

She lay still, gathering strength for nearly a minute.

Why...why didn’t you let me die? Her voice was as dry and as dusty as her face. It took several moments of working her throat before she could say, The hard part was over. Now I’ll have to do it again.

Again? He pondered that for a moment before nodding toward the wastelands lapping at the road. If you wanted to die you’d have walked out there, where no one could see you.

Instead of answering she sagged back and closed her eyes, then took the canteen—a victory of sorts. She shrugged, a tiny motion, felt more than seen.

I couldn’t move by the time I decided that dying was a good idea. She turned her face away and said, It still is. Life sucks. Pain and anger, plus something he couldn’t identify showed in her voice.

She lay that way for a time, while he tried to think of something to say. But hadn’t he, too, chosen death for a companion?

Before he could respond, she turned to face him once more, eyes gray and dead, like her voice. If you help me stand, I can move away from the road. Then you can leave me.

He shook his head, wishing a car would appear—probably a futile hope, given that it was little more than a service road, a two-lane strip of asphalt laid with no base other than the baked dirt that stretched to the horizon.

She really should be in a hospital. Sighing, he looked her over, not liking what he saw. She couldn’t be over sixteen years old, and her mode of dress was what you would expect: faded and torn jeans, grubby sneakers with toes peering from the sides, and a dirty tee-shirt proclaiming Pink Floyd a god. What she’d look like clean and with some meat on her bones was impossible to tell. Her eyes would be pretty, but that was the only thing of which he could be sure. Her hair was a dirty shade of brown, but that might have more to do with the dust she’d been lying in than her actual hair color. Her complexion appeared smooth, which was unusual at her age, but again, a coating of the ever-present desert dust had reduced it to a mottled shade of tan.

How she’d ended up there, and in such a condition, might be nice to know, but that was for later. Getting her safe and hydrated came first.

Decision made, he lifted her into his arms, grunting as he struggled to his feet and headed around the side of the cut, toward the gully where he’d found the eggs. She hung on to his neck, listlessly, not seeming to care where he took her, expression still closed.

Reaching a spot that wasn’t visible from the road, he lowered her to the ground, ending up with her on her back, kneeling over her, puffing with the effort.

She looked up at him for a moment, then closed her eyes. It’s okay, she said. I don’t mind.

He sat back on his haunches, frowning down at her and shaking his head. Don’t...mind? I don’t understand. What don’t you mind?

She opened her eyes, mouth twisting in disgust. You brought me back here for sex, where people can’t see you from the road, right? She took a deep breath, then looked away, her voice a whisper. I’m not stupid...but it’s okay, mister. Just leave me here when you finish.

She tried to sound as though she didn’t care, but her eyes shone with tears.

He stood, dusting off his hands, then removed his hat, holding it where she could reach it. Take this, he said, gruffly. I moved you here, where no one can see you, because you said you wanted to die. If you want, if that’s your plan, I can’t stop you from heading back out here when you get out of the hospital, so why waste time? He spun the hat onto her stomach when she showed no sign of taking it.

Here, he said. Cover your face with this to block the sun and it’ll go a little easier.

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

° ° ° °

Chapter 2

The walk home seemed longer than he remembered, and had him puffing hard as he alternated between trotting and walking. Adding the time to make something for her to drink, nearly thirty minutes passed before he started the car and eased onto the highway.

She sat waiting by the side of the road with her back against the steep side of the cut. His hat—far too large for her—combined with her sweat-stained clothes, gave a look of comic absurdity, somewhere between a little girl playing with cast-off adult clothing and a western version of the old Dead-End Kids movies.

As he came to a stop she struggled to her feet, bracing herself against the wall of the cut, the hat falling to the ground. Zack hurried around the car to help.

His concerned expression brought, Surprised you, huh?

I suppose so, he admitted. But you can crow about that later. For now, let’s worry about getting you into the car and hydrated.

She pushed herself upright, only to sag back against the wall. Her legs weren’t ready to carry her unaided, so he wrapped an arm around her waist to add support. Taller than he’d thought, at nearly five-eight or five-nine, walking with her was like walking with a stick figure, and he had the absurd thought that she might break if he wasn’t careful.

Her head tipped upward, looking into his face as she battled to walk on her own, and her words held pride. I told you I wasn’t stupid.

Busy with trying to both support her and open the car door, he said nothing, but had to agree.

Obviously lightheaded with exhaustion, and possibly with the effects of malnourishment, too, she swayed backward to meet his eyes as she waved a finger in his direction.

It was the canteen. I knew you’d be back for me as soon as I saw the look on your face when I told you it was okay to screw me. You don’t lie very well, either. I figured you were trying to get me to stay there by telling me you didn’t care, but the canteen you ‘accidentally left’ made me sure of it. She sank from his arm onto the car seat and closed her eyes, leaning her head against the headrest as he lifted her feet into the car.

Oh, God, air-conditioning...thank you, thank you.

He hurried around the car. She was weak, and might be slipping into shock, so getting some liquid into her had to be done quickly.

He slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and set the temperature control to eighty-five degrees, making her more comfortable, but without unduly chilling her.

He uncapped the container of iced tea and handed it to her. Drink this, it’ll give you a sugar boost at the same time as we get some more liquid into you. But take your time.

She took the container in shaky hands, ignoring his advice and virtually pouring tea down her throat, the excess running from the corners of her mouth. After a moment she settled down to a steady sucking at the container, stopping only for breath between swallows. Shaking his head, he touched the bottom of the container, pressing it downward and forcing her to stop for a moment. At her questioning look, he touched her hand in reassurance. It’s okay to drink what you need, but if you don’t take your time you’ll probably be sick. He shrugged. At least I read words to that effect somewhere, so.... She nodded and resumed her drinking, stopping for a moment or two between each swallow.

About to start the car moving, he snapped his fingers, then hurried to get his canteen, left where she’d been lying. On the way back he retrieved his hat from where it had fallen and pushed it back into shape before flipping it onto the rear seat. Then he headed for the house. Perhaps he should have taken her to town and turned her over to the juvenile authorities. But she appeared to be recovering from her ordeal, and there were things about her—interesting things—that didn’t track. Bringing her to a hospital, or the police, would reduce his role to that of an interested spectator—someone to whom a fifteen-word verbal assurance that she was in good hands would be all they felt necessary. Curiosity piqued, he wanted more than that.

He pulled off the highway at the short section of unpaved road leading to the house, slowing the car to a crawl and bumping along the assorted ruts and lumps laughingly called an access road. In response to her curious look, he said, I live back here a little way. I thought you might want to clean up a bit before you decide what you want to do next.

With the recuperative powers of youth, she was recovering quickly. Still, she looked unsure, so he added, I’ll take you to the hospital, or to town instead, if you like.

She shook her head. No. I’ve seen too many hospitals. I— She blinked, and took a deep breath as though waking, then straightened and held out her hand, saying, Forgive me. You’ve been very kind, and I really should have thanked you for helping me back there. I’m Ada...Ada Barton.

He revised his estimate of her age upward by two years, perhaps three. He nodded acceptance of the gift of her name—assuming that was her name.

Thanks accepted. He took her hand as he said, Hi, Ada, I’m Zack O’Neil.

Her slim hand was firm in his, and she shook hands like a man.

At last, they bumped their way over the final rise. It’s not much, he said, apologetically, in response to her frown, But it’s home.

By her expression, she’d decided that Not much was a good description of the place. His research indicated that the man who built it hoped to run cattle on the public rangeland adjoining the desert. Unfortunately, that hadn’t worked out. The range grass had a fragile hold on the arid land, and recovered so slowly from grazing that the constantly increasing distance to grass was a self-defeating proposition. The ranch failed, having served only to extend the desert a bit. The house, from what he could determine, lay empty for over fifty years before a series of drifters made it their home, some with a property deed and some as squatters. Out this far from civilization, and with little of value in the area, no one cared either way. Mostly, the place stood empty. There appeared to have been little maintenance done that hadn’t been absolutely necessary. The state of preservation gave testament to both the care taken in the original construction and the preservative properties of the dry desert air.

The house itself was of rough-finished adobe, whitewashed at one time to reflect the heat of the sun. The whitewash was mostly a vague memory, except where it had been sheltered from the action of the wind and its load of abrading dust. The rough outer coating of the walls was crumbling away in places, exposing the sun-dried mud bricks that formed the core of the wall’s construction.

The yard was a tongue of brown dirt that extended around the side of the house, its arid harshness amplified by the skeleton of a long-dead tree. What had once been a corral leaned tiredly earthward, except for two sides, which were still more or less erect.

There was, or at least had been, a small barn and what was probably a bunkhouse for the workers. What remained was a collection of charred wood, recalling a fire that had occurred an unknown number of years before he appeared on the scene. As a picturesque place to visit and photograph, the place was ideal. As a home-sweet-home, less than perfect.

Still, the house was tight against the night wind, and with the old kerosene stove burning, surprisingly warm. The word from the museum people was that the original owner burned sun-dried cow manure in the fireplace, now sealed behind a sheet of plywood. There were still plenty of cow chips available, but he had little inclination to experiment in that direction.

Water might a problem in the desert, but one reason the place was built in that location was the availability of underground water. The house boasted an old-fashioned hand pump. It still worked, and the water was both crystal clear and pleasant to drink, but the well had virtually no reservoir under the ground. Five strokes of the old pump, slightly less than a half-gallon, and a wait of ten minutes was required before more was available.

Rather than putting in a new well, he installed a small motor-driven pump in place of the old one, and piped the water into the house. To that, he added an electric water heater and a storage tank to accumulate enough water through the day to take a relaxing soak in the tub he’d rescued from the junkyard.

The outhouse he put up with because digging a cesspool would be far more expensive than upgrading the well, and water for flushing would be a problem. He experimented with mounting the traditional Sears catalog in the outhouse. But after a single attempt to use the pages as toilet paper returned to the more conventional type, and used the catalog as reading material, instead.

° ° °

Ada stopped in the doorway, looking around the living room as though testing the waters before committing herself to entering. Then she shrugged and stepped in, staying close to the front door but moving aside to let him enter and click on the big lamp, brightening the room.

The tiny, sand-pitted windows reflected the high cost of glass at the time the house was built, and the need for thick walls to deflect the heat of the day and the chill of desert nights.

The place wasn’t much. But it served. To her eyes, it was probably a lot less home-like than to his. The living room was furnished with a rag-tag assortment of furniture, most of which should have been consigned to the trash pile years before.

I’m sorry, he said, apologetically. Except for the sink and the tub, the place was like this when I found it, furniture and all. It serves, but I’m afraid it’s a little primitive.

The sight of the old claw-foot bathtub in the corner of the kitchen reminded him that there was no door between the main room and the kitchen, where the water supply was.

Before he could comment on that, however, he turned to find her inspecting the ancient sofa. She had one of the pillows lifted, and was smiling at the feathers that drifted from the worn spot underneath. She smiled up at him, saying, "Primitive? It’s not primitive, it’s wonderful. Everything’s so...so old! I love it." She replaced the pillow and sank onto the sofa, then waved toward the raw timber beams lining the ceiling.

This place is like the set of an old cowboy movie. Finding a comfortable spot, she leaned back, blinked several times, and yawned hugely before closing her eyes, mumbling something about the place being neat. He waited, but her eyes remained closed, and after a moment her breathing settled into the rhythm of slumber.

He watched her for a while, then went to sit on the porch and enjoy the sunset. When she showed no sign of waking by the time he was ready to sleep, he carried her to the bed and covered her against the night’s chill, before bedding down on the sofa. Should she wake, and try to steal past him and into the desert, she’d not only have to pass him, the bed’s old springs would announce her every movement.

He spent a restless night, brought alert by every change in her position.

° ° ° °

Chapter 3

Zack was reaching for a frying pan when the springs on the old bed shrieked complaint. She was awake. After a moment the floorboards by the kitchen doorway announced her presence, so he turned to find her looking alert but puzzled.

What is that thing? she asked, pointing to the heart box harnessed to his left shoulder.

He shot a glance at the box, then shrugged. I had a bad heart, so they replaced it with this.

They...took out your heart? Her tone said she had difficulty believing such a thing possible. After a moment, she asked, Completely? She frowned and waved an arm to indicate the box. But...what if it breaks?

He shrugged again. They claim the pump can handle multiple failures, he said, holding both hands up in a who knows gesture, adding, But if it breaks, it breaks. He forced a smile. I’m in the hands of modern science.

She touched a hand to her mouth in thought, tapping a finger on her lips. But, I thought they only used those things until they found a heart to transplant. Are you waiting for a donor? She took an apple from the bowl of fruit he’d put out and took a bite, leaning against the sink as though still drained by her ordeal.

He sighed. No, I was too old for a replacement. Since there aren’t enough of them to go around, they go to the best candidates for long-term survival. I got this instead. He didn’t tell her that the current survival record for someone his age, and having his particular problems, was less than two years. It wasn’t the device that failed. Somehow, as though the body knew of the missing heart, it deteriorated over time, the patient dying of multiple systemic failures as the body shut itself down. Thus far he hadn’t had to face that problem, but it was a matter of time, and the reason he’d not have the box serviced. His was an improved model, but the key word was improved, not perfected. Death was inevitable, but, it would be a great deal easier—and faster—with a box failure than from natural causes. At least that way he avoided a time of drawn-out suffering.

Not wanting to dwell on the subject he forced a smile. So, are you ready for breakfast? He rubbed his hands together to indicate a desire to get started. I have a batch of pancake batter mixed and waiting for you if you are. He pointed toward her hand. An apple’s okay, but no substitute for my peanut butter pancakes.

She nodded an okay, then looked around, as though searching for something, glancing over her shoulder. Uhh....

He laughed. It’s around back, you can’t miss it. You can use the sink in here to wash up afterward. The outhouse smells, but it’s clean.

She thanked him and headed out the door. While he waited, he cleared the counter and laid out a washcloth and towel, placing soap and a bottle of shampoo within easy reach. Then, wanting to give her privacy, he headed out of the house and toward the desert, calling, The bathtub is yours if you like. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.

When he returned, a stack of pancakes sat waiting on the table. She smiled as though cooking for him was something she did all the time, and he’d forgotten it was time to eat.

I’m glad you came back before they got cold. Before he could respond she came close and touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. You forget what you did for me yesterday. The least you can do is accept a small thank-you in return.

Giving in, he nodded acceptance, sat, and reached for the bottle of syrup. But her comment was a reminder that there were questions that needed answering.

Ada, he began. Yesterday, when you opened your eyes, you seemed depressed.... He stopped. What he wanted to say was, Tell me how the hell you got out there, and why you look like a refugee from a concentration camp, but at the moment she needed support and encouragement, so he studied the result of her scrubbing.

Her hair was a pretty off-blond, rather than the dust brown it had been when he found her, and she looked better with her face clean. But still, her wet hair framed cheekbones that stood out as hard accents on a face reminiscent of a poster soliciting aid for a third-world country. Maintaining that image, her wrists and arms appeared to have been fashioned from pipe cleaners.

Her mouth twisted, and her words carried a world of meaning when she said, Depressed. You can say that again. She took a deep breath and let it sigh out, eyes closed and head shaking. About to pour the batter for her own meal, she stopped and slid the pan to a cold burner, switching the stove off. Apparently, he’d hit a nerve.

She came to the table to sit across from him, reaching out to take his hand. I really do have to thank you, Zack. I was that and more. I truly did want to die.

She stared at the general area of his navel for a while, looking at nothing, then roused herself and patted his hand as she stood. Going to the stove once more, she looked back over her shoulder and said, But I feel a lot better this morning, thanks to you. Maybe it’ll last. Who knows?

Mmm? he said, unable to come up with anything better. He’d been hoping for an answer that told him a lot more than she’d volunteered thus far. When nothing was forthcoming, he added, How old are you, Ada? I guessed at sixteen when I found you, but now I’m not so sure.

That got a laugh, one he found pleasant. Thank you, Zack, but I’m twenty-two.

He could only stare, his forehead corrugated in a frown. Twenty-two?

She turned, smiling. Is that why you didn’t take me up on my offer of sex yesterday? Because you thought I was underage?

He sputtered, then exploded. Underage? I’ll be dammed if— He came to a halt, mouth twisted at her laughter. She’d been teasing.

He stared for a moment, then shook his head. You were proud when you saw through my trying to keep you from running off into the desert, and now you’re trying to best me again. You like that, don’t you...outsmarting people? He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, daring her to deny it.

Dumping a ladle of batter into the frying pan she froze, the ladle still held above the pan. After a moment she reached into the bowl for more batter. She poured it, placed the empty ladle in the sink, and turned to face him, eying him speculatively. You’re not so dumb yourself, are you? When he didn’t answer, she gave a one-shouldered shrug, adding, I’m sorry. It’s habit, I guess. I’ll try to remember that you’re not.... She trailed off, waving her hand in indecision, converting it to a never mind gesture and turning back to her cooking.

° ° ° °

Chapter 4

And this one is a what? Ada hefted the bone in her hand, testing the weight of it.

It’s an iguanodon. At least most of a vertebra from one. Zack smiled at the strange appearance she made, swathed in his faded old plaid bathrobe. The smile faded at the thought that while she moved with the poise of a woman, she weighed far too little for her size and frame. What could cause a seemingly sensible woman to treat her body with such foolishness?

He took the bone back. Her hands were trembling again. But questions on that, and her past would bring only evasive and noncommittal answers.

That she was unwell was becoming increasingly obvious. She appeared to be recovered from the dehydration of the previous day. But as the day wore on, she became ever more nervous, once excusing herself to visit the outhouse, to return with a faint odor of vomit clinging to her. They talked of this and that, mostly of his life, but he never got a satisfactory response to his questions when the subject was her. The trembling increased in intensity as the day wore on.

Enough was enough. He slid the bone fragment back on the shelf and pointed to the sofa. Sit, he said. He took the chair facing the sofa as she did so. She studied him with narrowed lips and tight-crossed arms—closed in and defensive. She, too, had been expecting this.

Little was to be gained by niceties, so he went straight to the heart of the matter. You talk, Ada. I listen. I’m trying to think of reasons not to drive you to the police station.

There’s no reason for that, she said, quietly, the windows of her eyes shuttered once more. I can walk to the road and thumb a ride, or you can drop me in town somewhere. Resignation weighted her words.

No, he said, with more vehemence than he’d intended. He leaned forward. "Listen, Ada, if that is your name. You have no money, no bags, and no identification. You were left for dead out on the highway. Someone is guilty of attempted murder at the very least, and you have neither the money nor means to go anywhere. He pointed a finger. So, I get answers that satisfy me, or you talk to someone less supportive. Those are the options, but the choice is yours."

Her eyes shifted to the door, then back to him. He shook his head. What? You’ll run for the door? Where would you go? He gave her a look of disgust. It doesn’t matter, though, the condition you’re in, you’d not make it to the road. What the hell are you on, anyway?

She stared at him for a long moment, mouth working. Finally, she slumped, unable to meet his eyes. Everything, she said, voice filled with defeat, I’m on everything. That’s why I wanted to die. I’m strung out, and I’m miles from any place where I can make a connection. She ducked her head, still refusing to look him in the eye. It’s only going to get worse. If you’re smart, you’ll take me to the cops...or that hospital you talked about, and walk away.

He nodded, tossing the ball back in her court, with, "Perhaps...but what do you want me to do?"

Her head snapped up, her eyes haunted. Don’t be stupid. I want to take a hit more than I want anything else in the world. I want you to run out and buy me anything that will make me feel human again—anything—and there’s nothing I won’t do for you if you will. She stared at him, hopefully, for a moment. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she slumped once more. She waved her hand to encompass the world around her, and her voice was bitter. But there’s no place around here to do that, and someone like you wouldn’t know where to buy it, even if there were. She sighed, long and raggedly, adding, and you’re not the type to do a thing like that anyway.

He nodded agreement. No, I guess I’m not. But you knew the kind of person I am this morning. Why didn’t you ask me to take you to town after breakfast? By now, you might have been able to get somewhere to make your connection.

She put her head in her hands, rubbing at her face as though trying to rub her problems away. She shook her head, and her voice was as dead as it had been the previous day when she first opened her eyes. No hope, and no expectation of hope showed in her voice as she spoke into her hands. Because a miracle would have been nice for a change. I was dead, and I came back. I thought maybe.... she looked at him over her fingertips. I can be stupid sometimes.

° ° °

It took nearly a week before she could function almost normally—longer than that before a trip to the outhouse was less than a torture session. Through it all, through the sweats and the screaming, through her begging him to kill her, and her blessing him for being there, he stayed by her