Page 96 of Wayfarers

“You’re, like, reverse-selling it. You’re re-buying your own bed from me in this moment. That’s your bed. And anyway I have my sleeping bag, and a tent, and there’ll be residual heat from the fire. See? It’s settled.”

“Knox, I have slept in a sleeping bag so many times. Give me the sleeping bag.”

“Where were these sleeping bags?”

“Sorry?”

“Where were they?” His eyebrows are very skeptical. “These historically relevant sleeping bags? Were they in the woods?”

“. . . no.”

“Or were these sleeping bags in somebody’s suburban backyard?”

“They weren’t, actually,” I tell him, but I’m distracted. There’s a hint of wet in the air.

“Where were these sleeping bags?”

“My friend Jilly’s basement. But it was an unfinished basement!”

“Right.” Knox stands and ushers me to the van. “In you go.”

“It’s going to rain!”

“Hence the tent,” he says. “Keeps it out.”

“Well, fine!”

“Fine yourself!”

“I’m going to bed!” And how can I both be laughing too hard to be mad and be actually mad at the same time? I want him to let me take care of him.

A LITTLE LATER

“Knox? Hey, Knox?”

No answer.

“KNOX!”

“Whoa, you scared me.”

“Sorry, I just—” I open the van door a little wider. “It’s loud because of the thunder. Can you hear me okay?”

“Sylvie?”

“CAN YOU HEAR ME OKAY? Over the—”

There’s a flash of lightning so close that our campsite lights up like a museum exhibit.

“IS THERE ANY METAL ON YOUR TENT?”

When Knox sticks his head out of the tent, he’s immediately soaked down to his shoulders. “METAL?” he asks.

“METAL!”

The rain is streaming into his eyes. “THE ZIPPER?”

“KNOX.”