He’d been awake all night, his brain too full to turn off, not a problem he ever had in the past. He’d watched her, collecting clues: perfect table manners… hesitation with the dishwashing... She wasn’t used to this life. Again, it had nagged him, that feeling that he knew her. He wondered if she was going to stay. He wondered if it came to it, whether or not he’d ask her to. For himself? Or Snickers? He was pretty sure Snickers should be talking by now. He was starting to think maybe she was mute; maybe he shouldn’t have given her the gun, but he couldn’t start second guessing, not even with Rhiannon’s doubt. He thought of the Fleetwood Mac song and wondered if he could still play it. Not that he’d picked up a guitar since college. Movement at the door distracted him and he turned his head expecting Snickers but, traitorously, hoping for Rhiannon. It was Snickers, sans gun. He patted the bed beside him and she, dragging all her bedding, climbed up. Maybe one of her parents might have been part Asian?
