DAD’S CHASING FEET and shouts to ‘Wait up’ faded after a couple of minutes of racing through the forest, but their absence made far too much room for the rapid and freezing wind of the early morning to swirl my thoughts. Of Brook. The potential of finding her. The hour of the day—just after eight, according to my phone—and how long she’d sat waiting for us to get another bite—while I’d slept. That led to the dodgy memory of being opposite Nate at the table the day before—which explained the crappiness of my head that even the cool patchouli freshness of our sanctuary couldn’t clear.
The arches to the Holloway property stretched across the treeline ahead, and I surged toward them, bulleting across the patch of barren land between, and beneath the bricks into Nate’s garden.
My bare soles m
