Page 12 of Open Road

With her soft cotton dress and loose dark hair, she carries a particular quality of calm that has nothing to do with the hour but simply with how she moves through the world. The actual center of gravity in this compound, whether anyone has said so out loud or not. She has an instinct for arrivals, for what kind of arrival it is, and what it needs from her. I’ve never seen her miscalculate it.

She looks at Janie. Not at Rose or me, but at Janie, the way you look at something that doesn’t know it’s fragile yet. She’s careful, assessing, without a single trace of pity because pity would be the wrong instrument, and Devil knows exactly which instrument the moment calls for.

She walks to her and places one hand on Janie’s arm, no more, the minimum contact the situation has asked for, and says in that Australian warmth that demands nothing in return, “Come on, love. Let’s get you and your girl sorted.”

Janie looks at her. Then at me—brief, a single beat, something between a question she hasn’t formed yet and a thing she doesn’t know what to do with—then she goes with Devil.

Rose surfaces at the sound of Devil’s voice, half awake, her eyes moving across the yard at the low lights and the shapes of the bikes in the workshop bay. The expression is of someone running a serious inventory.

“Compound,” she says, slightly garbled by sleep.

“Compound,” I confirm.

She looks at the common room door, which Devil has pulled open, the kitchen visible through it, lit and warm. Rose’s attention locks on with complete commitment, and she raises both arms.

I hand her to Janie.

Rose goes, still eyeing the kitchen, one fist still wrapped around my sunglasses because she didn’t release them, and they came with her. Janie takes her weight, tucks her close, and goes through the door with Devil.

The door swings shut.

The yard goes quiet.

The Softail, which is cooling, ticks at my back. Feral has gone back to the gate. Reaper hasn’t moved from the workshop shadow. Inside, Scout’s voice is a low rumble, and Winchester’s is nothing.

The particular weight of a place that has changed while you were gone settles over the yard. Not bad. Something else entirely.

I get Rose’s Mr. Rabbit from my saddlebag. She’ll need it before morning.

Scout is at the bar, both hands flat on the surface with the look of a man who has exercised significant restraint and is now requesting acknowledgment of it.

“Church in the morning,” I say. “Early.”

“That’s it?” He stares at me. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all there is right now.”

“There’s a woman and a…” He gestures toward the hallway. “A kid, man. You brought a kid to the compound.”

“Church in the morning.”

Winchester looks at me over the rim of his untouched beer. He’s decided something. He always decides things privately and efficiently, without requesting input. “Rivet Knights were on I-95 today,” he says. “Heading south. Vinnay called it in. Toronto chapter picked them up moving through the Carolinas two days ago.”

The yard light glows through the window. The Florida night presses warm against the glass.

“Then we move fast,” I say.

I take the rabbit down the hall.

The door to the room Devil put them in is closed. There’s light under it, and Rose’s voice is distinct through the wood, the particular register of a child who has determined that this new space contains a great deal of available information and intends to extract it. Devil’s voice, low and warm, giving each question what it’s owed.

Janie is quiet.

One knock. Three knuckles, not hard.

The voices stop.

“Mr. Rabbit here,” I say. “Door locks from inside. You’re safe.”