That night, as Sarah lay on her sleeping bag reading, she heard feet shuffle up to her tent. She bookmarked her novel and sat up, watching the tent flap pull back. On the other side, wreathed in moonlight, was Frank. “It’s me,” he whispered.
She grabbed her brush and ran it through her hair as Frank crawled in and sat beside her. “Hi,” he said. He glanced at the novel sitting beside her. “What’re you reading?”
She picked the book up. “Seven Years in Tibet.”
“Oh, Heinrich Harrer. Good read,” Frank said.
“Yes, I’m liking it very much so far.” She set the novel down. “So, you had a busy day.”
“I did,” Frank said. He looked at her a moment then averted his gaze to her book. Finally, he said, “I thought about you a lot, though.”
“And what were you thinking?” she said as the feeling of ner
