Page 97 of Wayfarers

“I’m fine!”

“YOU ARE NOT FINE, YOU ARE GOING TO GET ELECTROCUTED! OR YOUR CAST IS GOING TO GET WET.”

“I’M FINE!”

“KNOX MIDDLE NAME RAYBURN. GET YOUR BEHIND IN THIS VAN RIGHT THIS MINUTE.”

A LITTLE LATER

“Middle name, huh?” He’s toweling his hair one-handedly on the floor of the van.

“I was doing my best with what I had.”

“Hmm.”

“Did you get your cast wet?”

“Not too bad.”

I’m cross-legged on the bed, Winslow’s head in my lap. He’s smiling just enough to show his little golden retriever fangs, and I poke them, and I pretend that I’m not really, really nervous.

“Are you going to tell me?” I ask him breezily. “Your middle name?”

Knox grins at me. “Nope.”

“Top secret, huh?” Thunder above us, hard and fast. There and gone. “I’m happy you came in.”

“Very possibly my tent is going to end up in Lake Michigan.”

“Don’t look,” I tell him. “We can pretend until morning.”

He yawns. “I’ll just stretch out down here, with a blanket—”

I watch, trying not to smile. His plan is not going to work. But one thing I’ve learned about him is that he has to figure that out for himself.

He tries to lie back, but his head bumps against the center console. “Ugh.”

“You’re too long.”

“That’s a funny way of saying tall.”

“Length seems to be the operative word in this situation.”

“I can just—” Knox pulls his knees to his chest, but: “Ugh.”

“Now you’re too wide.”

“Got an A in geometry class, huh?”

“Okay. You get in the bed. I’ll get on the floor.”

“I am absolutely not making you sleep on the floor in your own van.”

I feel myself cross my arms. “You are not sleeping in a metal tent in a thunderstorm.”

We look at each other for a long, long moment.

“Okay,” I tell him, “let me find a hotel then,” which means I scroll through our options on Maps while I listen to Knox theatrically groaning.