Page 46 of What We Bury

“I know that. But are theylooking afterher? Because she’ll need someone. When the adrenaline wears off and the shock settles, she’s going to need someone who understands. Maybe . . . Maybe that should be you.”

I look down at the ground. My hands are bleeding a little, the blisters split and raw, and it strikes me that if someone does this job—grave digging—they probably have hands thatlooklike a graveyard. Scars on scars. History etched in callus and nerve.

Milo’s watching me.

“I’m serious.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him not sound like he’s winding up for a bit. “You saw her. That girl’s going to climb the walls when she’s alone. She’s going to think about it over and over, until it eats her alive. We can’t let her go radioactive.”

“She’s not our project.”

“She’s not anyone’s fuckingproject,” he says, annoyed. “She’s a human being who’s been through shit. And you’re the only one of us who knows what it’s like. You understand what happened to her, what she’s carrying. She’ll need you.” He shrugs. “Knox can protect her. Holden can scare off anyone who looks at her wrong. Eli can brood in her general direction. But you? You can actually help her.”

“And what about you?”

He grins, and the seriousness vanishes like it was never there. “I’m going to bring her noodles and braid her hair and begenerally delightful. The guy who takes her mind off everything and makes her feel good. Sacred work.”

“So you’re the dopamine hit a person craves after a trauma bender?” I shake my head. “I’m not sure being the edible glitter in the existential void should be a life goal.”

He places his hand over his heart. “Nawww, you do know me, Micah.”

“Unfortunately. Let’s get this grave finished.”

“Okay. But think about what I said, man. She’ll need you.”

We dig until our hands give out and I’m starting to wish this grave was for me.

Milo is humming “Yellow Submarine” and I want to hit him for it, but I also feel like joining in just to stay awake.

I turn over his words, thinking about Sage.

She’ll need you.

I curse Milo for planting that idea in my head.

“Grave’s done.” Milo tosses the shovel aside and claps his hands together, sending up a small cloud of dust. “Let’s get Brock in the ground and go. I want to stop for food on the way back. There’s a truck stop with a twenty-four-hour diner that does all-day breakfast. We can shower there and order a butt ton of hash browns. They’re, like, aggressively good.”

A shower and food do sound good.

I peer into the hole. It’s exactly the right size. Exactly the right depth. Because Milo, for all his chaos, has never once half-assed a job.

After helping him out of the ground, we wrestle Brock out of the SUV and into the grave. He’s stiff now, heavier than he was, and the smell is starting to turn. Milo doesn’t flinch. Neither do I. We don’t often dispose of bodies, but we’ve done this enough times that the mechanics are automatic—lower the body, fill the hole, pack the dirt, scatter debris to hide the fresh dig.

By the time we’re done, our stomachs are growling and I’ve never wanted that shower more in my life.

We stand there for a moment, looking at the unmarked grave. There’s no headstone, no marker, no way for anyone to know what’s buried here. In a few weeks, the desert will reclaim this patch of earth completely, and Brock will just be . . . gone.

“You think anyone will miss him?” I ask.

Milo shrugs. “One guy. Stephen.”

“He’s the one who texted at the jetty?”

“Yeah. Guy won’t quit—fifteen messages asking where Brock is, when he’s coming, why he isn’t answering.” He pulls a face. “Clingy doesn’t cover it. I told him Brock needed space to clear his head and went quiet. Doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.”

“Local?”

“Seems like it.” Milo’s quiet for a second, which is rare enough that I look up. “There’s also a group thread that’s pretty active. Something about dogs—all this talk about bitches in heat and house training and shit.” He scratches his jaw. “I genuinely can’t tell if they’re dog breeders—the saddest hobbyists alive—or a bunch of guys being crass about women.” He pauses. “Either way, I hate them all. Anyone in that rapist’s orbit deserves the rope in my book.”

I nod slowly. “You think any of them will become a problem?”