Page 57 of Hunger

I cross to the window. I work the latch. I push the window open. The cold of the December night rushes in.

I look at her one more time. Her eyes are closed. Her face is soft in sleep. Her hand is curled where I'd been beside her.

I step out onto the ledge. I close the window behind me.

Chapter Thirteen

Farkas

I climb down from her window into the dark.

The wind has died and the first stars are out above the apartment complex. I cross the lot to the van. I don't look back at her window. If I look back I won't be able to leave, and the leaving is what makes the coming back possible.

I drive home.

The road is empty. The fields on either side are gray with old snow. I don't feel the cold of the night through the open window — I feel nothing at all except her warmth still on my mouth and the taste of her blood from the kiss still faintly on my tongue.

I've been many things in a thousand years and tonight I'm this one. The thought repeats. The shape of it is steady in me.I am hers.It isn't a sentence I've ever made about myself before. I don't know what to do with it except to let it sit, as a man sits with a small bird that has landed in his hand and might fly away again if he closes his fingers.

I let myself into the farmhouse. The kitchen is dark. The phone sits on the table where it's sat for two years. The cord is curled against the wood.

I lift the receiver.

I dial.

The line rings three times.

"Whitfield."

"It's me."

"Sir."

"I'm leaving the country tomorrow night. I'm bringing one passenger."

The pause on the other end is half a second long. I've never saidpassengerto him. I've never saidbringinganyone. In the two centuries his family has handled my account no one has ever traveled with me.

"Yes, sir."

"The jet is to be ready at the field by seven o'clock Monday evening. I'll board at seven-thirty. We'll fly to Budapest."

"Of course, sir."

"I need documentation for the passenger by tomorrow afternoon. United States passport. Hungarian residence permit. A name registered with the appropriate authorities. The name is Jenny Lin. L-I-N. Twenty-three years old. Her date of birth I'll give you."

I give him the date of birth from the memories her mother gave me. I give him her social security number from the memories Tammy gave me. I give him the details that'll let his people build a paper version of her that the world will accept.

"Sir, the timing is tight."

"I'm aware."

"It can be done. We'll have the documentation at the field when you board."

"Thank you. There's one more thing."

"Sir."

"The sheet music. The Massenet that arrived Friday. I'll be delivering it tonight."