Chapter 7: The Border at Night

The text came at ten the next night, from a number I didn't know.

Please. The border post. Alone. It's Imogen.

I read it twice at the kitchen table with a mug going cold in my hand.

Maisy, across from me, read it upside down.

"Don't go," she said.

"I'm going."

"It's a trap."

"Probably," I said. "But she's carrying a child, and she sounds scared."

Torben was at the sink.

He had heard every word, and he dried a plate for a long time.

"Term three," he said.

"Term three," I agreed.

He put the plate in the rack.

"Take the dog," he said.

The dog heaved himself off the hearth rug and went to the door.

The border post stood a mile down the road in the dark, a white post with a carved pine.

The dog trotted ahead of me with his nose down, and the road was quiet except for our feet and the wind in the firs.

Imogen was standing beside the post in a gray hoodie with the hood up.

She had a canvas tote bag in both arms, held against her stomach.

I stopped about ten feet away.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi."

"I didn't know if you'd come."

"Neither did I."

The dog sat down between us and looked at her.

Under the hood her face was puffy, and her red lipstick was gone.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I know that doesn't mean anything."

"It means something," I said. "It just doesn't fix anything."

She nodded, and the tears came, and she wiped them away hard with her sleeve.

I dug in my jacket pocket, found a roll of ginger candies Maisy had given me, and held it out.

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