Page 8 of The Storm

Almost.

Indy leans farther back. Inches a bit lower.

Is it restlessness? Is he going to start talking now? Is he going to ruin the moment?

But he doesn’t. He just lowers himself onto his back and aims his gaze at the sky.

Every now and then I sneak a glance his way.

Every now and then he sneaks a glance in mine.

I don’t think he knows what to make of me any more than I know what to make of him. All I know is that I’m itching to go but somehow also compelled to stay.

“Where in Pennsylvania?” he asks.

I snap my head toward him.

“Where do you live?” he says.

I debate not answering, but open my mouth anyway.

“Bois Run.”

“Cheesesteaks,” he says, making me blink again.

I stare.

He scrunches his nose. “It was the only thing I could think of to say. Then again, that’s Philadelphia, right? Or are the cheesesteaks a state thing? Not that I think they’re strictly exclusive. You know what? Never mind.”

“Okay,” I say dubiously.

“Are they any good? I’ve never had one.”

“They’re… fine?”

“Not the most enthusiastic recommendation.”

“It’s a sandwich. Not exactly worth a parade.”

There’s more silence, but it’s not necessarily uncomfortable. I’d prefer to stay in that lane, but Indy makes another go at drawing me into conversation.

“It’s a nice evening.”

“Yup.”

We’re side by side. Close enough that if I moved my arm a few inches we’d be touching. I sneak another glance his way.

“What’s Bois Run like?” he asks.

“Small.”

“Nice?”

Depends on what you enjoy in a town, I suppose. We have a cellulose manufacturing facility that employs half the town and on occasion makes everything smell like rotten eggs. The whole town’s got that depressing air of poverty hanging over it. No kayaking or fancy colonial houses with rose bushes for us.

I’d give anything to be back home right now.

“Boring,” I say.