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“Never tried.”

“You draw a card and act it out, see if your partner can guess it. I drew one that said ‘SpaceX.’ Didn’t even know what it was.” Abrief nod. “Then…there was the baby thing, but that’s a whole ’nother issue.”

“And yet…”

She noted he was looking at the clothing. “I’d say he’s eighty percent out.”

Shaw had to smile to himself at her choosing the numerical analysis. That was his forte.

“He said he’s coming back to collect them. But it’s been a month.”

Shaw looked over the pile. “Hm. Second-tier fashion. He doesn’t need them. Left them accidentally on purpose. An excuse to come back.”

“You think so?”

“Though maybe he’s just lazy or forgetful.”

She laughed. Another kiss.

“So what’s the story with you? A different damsel in every town you visit, Colter?”

“A lot of towns, not so many damsels.”

He thought instantly of Margot, though she resided in a past that, if it were a verb tense, would be called permanent perfect. Had he been forced to pick one soul whose path crossed his it would be Victoria Lessner. Their first interaction was a knife fight, and they’d grown close immediately after, though whether the relationship between the steel blade and their romance was causal or merely a coincidence, Shaw could not begin to say. They still saw each other some—though only if their respective jobs—she was a security consultant—happened to be contiguous. Neither had ever boarded an airplane for a visit and Shaw suspected they never would.

Coyne broke the ensuing silence with: “You know you can read the body language of crops?”

He didn’t. “So corn has been lying to me all along, and I don’t know it.”

“They still tell you what they hate and what they like and whatthey need—growing toward the sun, drooping from thirst or lack of nitrogen. I can read them better than people. Men, at least.”

“I’m an open book.” He moved to kiss her but stopped suddenly.

“What?”

“Vehicle.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

She probably had, on the periphery, but hadn’t paid attention to the subtle stimulus.

Colter Shaw was unablenotto focus the senses.

“You expecting anyone?”

“No.”

Bear?

He rolled out of bed and dressed quickly. She did too. Her eyes grew wide as she saw him checking his gun—dropping the mag to make sure all six rounds remained and tugging the slide to confirm the chambered round.

No reason for the weaponnotto be in order but you did this anyway. Always.

“Colter,” she whispered. “The bomber?”

“Don’t know. You have any weapons in the house?”

She nodded to a shadowy spot behind the bedroom door, where he saw a pump shotgun, twelve gauge. Short—an eighteen-inch barrel. The perfect home-defense weapon. Often all you needed to do to scare off a home invader was to work the pump. The metallicchuck-chuckwas enough of a warning that an unwanted visitor was about to die a particularly unpleasant death to motivate them to flee.