And Mona’s no fool.

Luke’s going back to work tomorrow, so tonight we went out to dinner at the Copper Pot for the first time in I can’t remember how long. Most of the talk in town was fear that the tunnel project might get canceled altogether after the terrible tragedy that befell the Clements crew. The company’s big signs had already been taken down at Trailer City and at the site of the first grading on the edge of town. Out of respect, people said. And now, apparently the ownership of the entire company’s in dispute. Donald Clements’s sole surviving heir has no desire to run it, and so he’s considering selling off its assets to another firm. Graydon Pharmaceuticals has used that as cause to cancel their contract and start the search for another tunnel company.

But Altamira’s been knocked down before, and so people aren’t that hopeful the tunnel will happen now, and there’s a sense of grief hanging over the town that’s shot through with self-interest.

As our server, Carla, shared these details with us, Luke and I just chewed our food and nodded and made various noises as if we were hearing it all for the first time, what with Luke having been so sick for so long and all. Then, once Carla left, the two of us sat in silence that felt like a strange blend of contentment and astonishment. We’re two people who have seen the giant hand that sometimes moves the earth underfoot. But how long, I wonder, before the hand moves the earth so many times, there’s nothing left for us to stand on anymore?

During his recovery, Luke has been gentle and needy. It’s as if some of the hard edges have been rubbed off him. They’ll probably mend or grow back, I’m sure. He’s still Luke Prescott. But with Project Bluebird 2.0 on hiatus for the time being, there’s been no further talk of him joining the team. Maybe he’s too tired to discuss it. Or maybe he no longer feels qualified. Or maybe he just doesn’t give a damn after what he’s been through. We’ll see.

When we make love, the sense of urgency or playfulness has gone out of it. But it’s been replaced by something different. Something steady and intense.

I could have lost him.

I realize this now.

I think, in some sense, I became so fixated on the idea that he would reject me when he woke up that it distracted me from what I was really feeling: the fact that he could have died, or suffered some unspeakable debilitating injury before I managed to get to him, in which case our new life together might have been instantly and forever changed. And so now, when we make love, we take our time. He has to always be on top, of course. Until his back fully heals. But I don’t mind. And when we’re finished, we lie there for a while in such a way that I can breathe, in a way that feels like the weight of him is steadying my breath, not shortening it.

I can’t remember which one of us said it first, but it’s been said many times over the past few days. And neither one of us made a big deal about it. We’re not teenagers, for God’s sake. What’s the big deal? They’re just three words.

I was thinking of saying them out loud, right there at the Copper Pot, when Luke’s eyes caught on something outside and his fork froze halfway to his mouth. Then he was rising to his feet and leaving the table, and I had no choice but to follow him. I had to apologize to Carla and swear we weren’t skipping out on the bill, but she looked more worried by the expression on Luke’s face.

When I caught up to him, he’d stopped just outside the door, and that’s when I saw the little guy about a half block away, holding the straps of his tattered book bag. Short and slender, with Luke’s same color hair but brushed forward over his head in a big, thick mop that almost hid his eyes. It’d been years since I’d seen him. Not quite as long for Luke, but close. And as they stared at each other, I got nervous. I’d never expected this reunion, not this soon, but there he was. Looking bashful and uncomfortable in his skin, which made sense, given he can never stay in one place and rarely steps outside.

“Hey,” the guy said.

And then I saw all of it in the little guy’s eyes at once—the fear and the regret and the need for something. At least I hoped there was need. I hoped he’d stay for a while, because as Luke stared, he didn’t seem angry or poised to vent years’ worth of frustrations. He seemed like a man experiencing some great relief, and I wondered if this was exactly what he needed.

Then he ran to the guy and took him in his arms, and the two of them hugged like straight men always hug when they want it to last for longer than a few seconds, like two bears wrestling.

And then Luke looked at me with tears in his eyes because Bailey was home.

42

When Scott Durham raps on the car window, Cole realizes the plane carrying Noah Turlington has just touched down outside the hangar. He steps from the SUV.

A few minutes later, the hangar door ascends just enough to allow Noah and his security team to walk under it. Noah’s dressed in the jeans and T-shirt they provided for him and flanked by six of the best security personnel they could find. If he’s excited to have been released from the cell where they’ve kept him for the past three weeks, it’s nowhere in his expression. His stance is another story, however. He walks with a skip in his step, his head erect.

Then he sees the two large vessels parked off to the side of him and comes to a sudden stop. Like coffins, but bigger, they sit on wheeled platforms, but their bottoms extend almost to the floor, and the low and steady hum of life-support equipment comes from each one. Maybe he’s afraid he’ll have to make the next leg of his journey inside one of them. Cole opens his mouth, preparing to disabuse him of the notion, then decides to hold off for a bit.