Than any of us
CASPIAN I don’t tell her everything in the car. This is deliberate. I have learned to be honest about that much, at least — when I withhold something, I know I’m doing it, and I know why, and I don’t dress it up as protection or strategy. I am withholding because the road is long and what I have to say will change the shape of things, and I want us both to be still when it lands. She is working through it quietly beside me. Hands flat on her thighs. Breathing in that careful measured way that means her face has agreed not to become a problem. I know that agreement costs her something. I don’t remark on it. “You knew the name,” she said, back on the grey stretch before the town disappeared entirely. “A version of it,” I said. “How long.” “Long enough that I should have told you befor
- Writer
