Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
The same way she’d entered his life so many years ago and then left the journal behind that had kept him sane in more ways than one. It hadn’t always seemed like a blessing, truthfully. And just recently, he’d wished for the escape he imagined in madness. But then again, he couldn’t have known she’d come back into this life, and he’d be grateful he had retained a mostly sound mind. How would he have enjoyed her if he hadn’t?
You’re a fool. And you’ll be worse off when you’re parted again.
Yes, well, at least it would be permanent.
He looked over at Autumn, wrapped in a thick sweater, a book in her hand. She read a lot of books. Bill must too, because it was his cottage, and there was a whole shelf of them inside. Sam could tell she was preoccupied though sometimes, because she’d tap her bookmark and look away from the pages, staring unseeingly beyond her novel, a troubled look on her face. If she wasn’t here with him, she’d probably be researching or calling or doing who knew what toward finding answers about what he’d shared with her. It made him nervous, and it made him ever conscious of their limited time together. As soon as he was able, he’d have to leave. Then she could research to her heart’s content, but she’d never find anything concrete—the program would have covered their every track.
Now though…now, for this waning pause of time, it was just her and him and the dwindling canopy of leaves surrounding the small cottage where they waited things out.
It was a nice evening, and they’d remained outside, sitting and watching the water after they’d eaten the ravioli from a can. Every time she opened one of those cans, she looked apologetic and said things like, “Well, this will have to do,” like he might have complained about it.
But Sam didn’t care about food. He’d eaten hospital fare most of his life, and then he’d had to eat lots of things worse than that when food was scarce and you ate whatever you could find that was halfway edible during missions.
He was perfectly happy with canned ravioli.
Especially if he could look at her while he ate it.
Sam stretched one arm, opening and closing his fist as he flexed his fingers. He was getting stronger by the hour. He’d dressed his own wounds that morning. He was still walking stiffly and carefully, but he was walking. He’d even taken several slow strolls through the woods alone.
He closed his eyes and raised his face to the fading sun and felt the bare brush of warmth upon his skin.
A pen was on the table in front of her, and every few minutes, she’d reach for it without looking up from the page and then underline something in her book. That went on for a while, and though he liked watching her when she was unaware, he found he wanted her attention.
He cleared his throat, but she didn’t look up. He’d been busy for the last several days filling in the pages on the pad of white paper. But he liked to work on it while she was sleeping so she wouldn’t ask what he was doing. The book she was reading must be riveting. He didn’t like that book. Whatever it was.
As the sunset brightened, she brought the book higher to block out its glare. Sam reached out slowly and slid the pen quickly across the table and under his hip.
He waited, and when she reached for it a few minutes later, he watched from his peripheral vision as she lowered her book, a confused frown on her face. She set the book down and then bent, looking under the table. She huffed. “What in the world?” she murmured. “Sam, did you see my pen?”
“Maybe it blew away.”
She sat up. “A pen? Blow away? I don’t think so. Plus, there’s hardly any wind.”
“Maybe it walked away.”
“Walk—what?” She peered at him more closely, her eyes narrowing.
He liked the feel of her attention focused his way. It was the very best thing that had ever happened to him.
“Sam.”
“Autumn.”
“Do you have my pen?”
“Can you describe it?”
She paused. “It’s, oh, yea high,” she said, bringing her hands up and approximating its size. “And yea wide. It’s made of plastic, and it contains ink.”
“What color ink?”
She let out a small laugh that melted into a clearing of her throat. She put her hand out, tapped her foot, and Sam pulled the pen out from under his thigh and handed it over.
“Sneaky,” she said, rapping the pen against her wrist. “Huh.”
A smile tugged at Sam’s mouth. “You had it coming. You tripped me once.”
“I did, didn’t I?” She grinned suddenly. “You fell right on your face.”
“I didn’t fall on my face. I fell on top of you.”