“Hey.”

My eyes fluttered open. At the end of the bed, Mallory stood—where he’d stood every morning for the last week.

“Hi,” I croaked, shifting in bed.

“Need some help?”

Mallory always asked.

I always declined.

It was almost like a cute little game we played.

Except I needed help and we both knew it, but neither of us knew quite how to give it.

I’d found that little oddity relaxing. Just because Mallory was older than me didn’t mean he had a clue what he was doing. We were stuck in this strange place together—unknowing and lost.

He looked different today. His beard was trimmed to look more like a five o’clock shadow and today’s shirt was less wrinkled than I’d seen in the past few days. We hadn’t exchanged many words but in words’ absence, I’d found a certain type of solitude in watching.

“How are you feeling?” Mallory asked, walking slowly toward the side of the bed, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Alone.

Hopeless.

Exhausted.

Like the world, no matter its small charms, was fading in on itself.

“Fine,” I replied.

“Want to shower and then get some breakfast?”

Showering had become one of my least favorite parts of the day. Getting to the bathroom with the help of Mallory was awkward enough, but knowing he stood just outside the door and waited for me to finish was the icing on the cake.

“Sure,” I said. And then, unable to stop myself from asking, “Have you talked to Danny?”

He smiled sympathetically and shook his head.

Danny hadn’t called since he’d left almost a week ago. Or, if he did, he told Mallory not to tell me. I couldn’t blame him for that—but god, did it feel bad.

I tossed the comforter off and slowly, carefully, swung my legs over the side of the bed. It wasn’t until the foot on my good leg touched the ground that I realized Mallory was staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

He shrugged. Smiled.

The look was odd, but it allowed my mind to wander. What would my parents think if they were still alive and I was going through this same situation? Would they be there to comfort me and help me?

“You okay?”

My gaze snapped up to Mallory. “Yeah.”

“Million miles away?”

“Or six feet under,” I answered stupidly—honestly—without thinking.

He furrowed his brow and then put his arm on my shoulder. “Don’t do that to yourself, Archer.”

I tried, pathetically, to smile at him. “I’m going to hop in the shower.”

“Be careful. You have a cast on.”

Surprisingly, a laugh burst out of me. “Oh, this old thing?”

His grin was wide and uncontrolled. That was one thing about Mallory I very much admired—he never tried to hide his happiness. “I think I saw it in passing a time or two.”

“Want to write your name?” Even saying it sounded juvenile and stupid. But I couldn’t help it. Sometimes Mallory tricked the silliness out of me.

His eyebrows rose. “Don’t think I’ve done that since grade school.”

“My dad broke his arm once. It was during a skiing trip with my mother, brother, and me. I must’ve only been about seven or eight at the time, but I thought my world was coming to an end, seeing him there in that hospital.”

Mallory sat down on the end of the bed, a world away from me.

“I remember how stark white his cast was. I don’t know why it stuck with me, but it did. Couldn’t help but stare at it. When he noticed, he asked my mom to go out and buy a brand new set of colorful felt markers for me. When they gave them to me and my father told me to draw anything I wanted over the entirety of his cast, it felt…” I paused for a brief moment. “I covered the entire thing in crappy drawings of my favorite cartoon characters or with names of people I knew. There wasn’t an inch of white left. I can’t draw worth a damn, but when I finally finished, three days later, my dad told me he’d never been given a more beautiful gift.”

The memory struck me.

Straight.

Through.

My.

Heart.

I gasped for air or for existence, but more likely for purpose in life. Immediately, my head fell into my hands and I pressed hard against my eyes with the heels of my palms.

The small moments of contentment weren’t worth this crippling pain. Life wasn’t worth this. How could it be when the people I loved most in the world were ghosts.

I wasn’t all right.

I wasn’t okay.

I wouldn’t ever be okay.

“Archer.”

Somehow through the darkness of my own mind, I heard Mallory’s voice.

From where my world was crumbling around me, I turned to look at him. He didn’t look back, just stared down at his hands resting in his lap. I knew then Mallory suffered his own pain as well. Most people without the kind of heartache we carried around didn’t understand how to handle this. They’d hug and hush and tell us everything would be okay when we knew it wouldn’t be.

“Danny broke his arm when he was sixteen. First bone he ever broke. Did he tell you?”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“Climbing out of a girl’s bedroom window.” He snorted, a smile on his face. “Breaking curfew, of course. Broke his arm, luckily only in one place. Leapt straight outta her bedroom window to a tree and missed it by at least ten feet. Could’ve broken his damn head open or snapped his neck.”

“Sounds like Danny.”

“I remember getting that phone call in the middle of the night. He’d woken the girl’s parents by wailing his face off. They took him to the hospital and called me. When I saw him—Christ, that hurt. He looked so defeated.”

“What did you do when you saw him?”

He turned to look at me. “I laughed.”

“What?”

“Maybe it was out of joy that I could see him there—relatively okay, all things considered. Maybe I’d just lost my mind. But I laughed, and when I did, he started to laugh too. The look on his face lightened. Sure, I teared up at home later that night when he was in bed. But now he likes to tell people about what a monster I am—jokingly, I hope. About how his father came to pick him up after he’d broken his arm and all I could do was laugh.”

“It’s funny which memories stick with us.”

“I’ve got a whole lifetime of memories up here.” He tapped his temple with his finger.

“You’re too young to have a lifetime of memories.”

When he smiled, it looked a little too practiced. It almost hurt to look at.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Yeah. Don’t you have to work today, though? I can figure it out myself.”

“Nah. Closed up shop for a bit. Benefits of being your own boss.”

“Right. Danny mentioned before that you owned your own shop. I’m not sure what it is exactly though. Sorry.”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind. Don’t worry about it. Tell you what: how about we get downstairs and you can shower in the washroom on the main floor and I’ll start cooking breakfast?”

“Sure.”

---

When the steam of the scorching water filled the large bathroom so I almost couldn’t see, I reached out from the stool on which I sat and turned off the taps. That was how I showered now—sitting on a stool. It was better than the alternative: having someone else help me shower.

Barely managing, I slid open the shower door and stepped out, careful not to knock either of my casts.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, reached out, and brushed away the haze from my reflection. The person staring back at me looked exhausted. I looked like I hadn’t slept in a week. My gaze traveled from my pale blond hair to the emptiness of my eyes. From there, it traveled down to my shoulder. It held scars now, and still the faint discoloration of healing bruises.

I sighed and closed my eyes.

A gentle knock rapped at the door.

“Need some help?”

“Yeah. Just a minute.”

Unsteadily, I managed to pull on a pair of boxer briefs, an oversized pair of sweatpants, and a huge, white T-shirt. The underwear was the trickier part because they were nowhere near as oversized as the clothing, but there was no way in hell I was letting Mallory help dress me.

When I opened the door, I found him leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, his head turned to the side as he looked out the back window.

His profile was almost hard, his jaw was locked tight, and his brow furrowed. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his forearms, exposing the taut muscles under his skin. His dark, almost-black hair was trimmed close to his scalp on the sides, but the top and front were longer, with a few stray strands falling in front of his eyes.

When he realized I was standing there like an idiot looking at him, he turned his gaze toward me and smiled.

For a moment, I thought I could hear the loud thumping of my heart in my ears.

“C’mon,” he said, taking a step toward me.

With Mallory’s help, we made our way down the hallway and into the kitchen. He gently deposited me onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and went into the living room to turn on some music. Moments later, the soft sizzle of bass guitar filled the air and soon after, the twang of an electric guitar.

“Classic rock?” I asked as he walked by me and into the kitchen.

“Predictable, huh?”

“My dad loved classic rock.”

“The man had good taste.”

“I have so many of his old vinyl records in storage. Hendrix, Ram Jam, Sammy Hagar.”

Mallory turned toward me briefly from where he stood in front of the stove, his eyes lighting up. “Really? I have a few of my own. Started collecting—Christ—when I was your age or younger.”

I shrugged. “I was never too much of a fan.”

“Archer, listen. I don’t want to have to toss you out into the snowbank and leave you to fend for yourself in the Albertan tundra, but if you leave me no choice…”

I started to laugh. “Sorry, Mallory.”

“Well, what’s your weapon of choice then?”

“Classical. Instrumental. Ambient.”

“Wind chimes, you mean?”

“Shut up.”

He turned back toward the stove, smile on his face. I watched the back of his head, his shoulders, his long legs and thick thighs, as he worked. From the fridge he grabbed the eggs, buttercream, green onion, and tomatoes. And then from the cabinet, he gathered an array of unlabeled spices. The frying pan began to sizzle, and the sweet, salty smell of melting butter filled the large kitchen.

Elbow on the counter, I rested my chin in my hand and simply watched. There wasn’t anything else to do. That small fact gave my heart a tug. I missed running. I wished I could’ve been outside climbing my way through the thick forest, trampling down on the compact dirt, the feel of fresh, freezing air burning my lungs.

As the minutes ticked by and I focused more and more on my debilitated state, the thicker the unhappiness coiled inside me became.

“Have you always liked cooking?” I found myself asking Mallory.

He grunted in response. “No. I had to learn after Danny’s mother passed. Before that, I could barely cook toast without burning it to a crisp. My wife—she was the chef of the family. Always making these amazing meals, pairing foods I never dreamed would taste good together but did.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Some of my best memories now are of cooking for Danny in this kitchen. But I miss her cooking. What I wouldn’t give for one more bowl of—”

He stopped abruptly.

I couldn’t miss the tension in his shoulders, the way he hung his head low, or the crushing grip he had on the edge of the counter.

“So, what kind of shop do you own?” I asked.

He said nothing.

“Mallory?” I pressed.

After a few more seconds, he turned toward me. “Sorry. What?”

“What kind of shop do you own? Danny mentioned you own your own business. I, uh, never had the chance to ask what you do.”

“Oh.” He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. “I’m a carpenter. I make furniture.”

“Really?” I leaned closer. “Last time we were here, I couldn’t help but admire the chairs and cabinets and the dining room table. Did you make those?”

Some of the tension seemed to slip away. “Yeah.” He smiled self-consciously.

“How’d you learn?”

“My father taught me.”

“Did you teach Danny?”

He laughed.

So I said, “Right. Dumb question.”

“Carpentry takes a lot of time and patience. You wouldn’t think it, but you need a soft touch and a bit of finesse. My son has many fantastic traits, but I’m not sure patience or finesse are on that list.”

Turning my head, I stared out the window at the snowbank stacked up near the side of the house. “My dad taught me how to shoot.”

“Yeah?” He looked at me over his shoulder. “What’s that like?”

“Euphoric.”

His brows sank a little lower over his eyes, but he didn’t say what he wanted to. It was written all over his face. “I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”

“No?”

Mallory shook his head. “Never even held one or seen one up close.”

“Ever wanted to?”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s not for everyone.”

“But it is for you?”

“It’s very much for me.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever understood the appeal. Is it a power thing?”

I thought about it for a moment. “No. Not for me. It’s a control thing. It’s about seeing something you know is so far away and still being so close to it. It’s hard to explain.”

Mallory was silent for the next few minutes as if contemplating what I’d said. He pulled dishes out of the cabinets, plated fried eggs with sliced tomatoes, and sprinkled them with salt and pepper. On the side of my plate rested one piece of toast covered in butter, another in jam, and another in peanut butter.

“Thanks,” I said when he set the plate down in front of me.

“My pleasure.”

“You’re always feeding me.”

“It’s what parents do. It’s in our blood.”

For some reason, that unsettled me. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t think of you like that.”

“As a parent?” He set a glass of orange juice down in front of me and another one next to his plate.

“Yeah. I mean, I know you are, but not to me.”

He fixed his gaze on me for a moment—unwavering—and then he smiled.