Chapter 5: The Bunkhouse

By the third evening at Red Sand I had walked every room of Mesa Lodge twice with a clipboard.

The east wing was short fourteen beds for the Gathering, and the kitchen's walk-in cooler had been broken since March.

I wrote both on the list and underlined them.

Nobody laughed at me anymore.

The oldest elder had left a mug of black coffee on my bunkhouse step each morning, with no note.

I had started leaving the mug washed on the rail.

Cade found me at the top of the lodge's back stairs at sunset, going over the list one more time.

"You've been in these halls for three days," he said. "Have you eaten?"

"A sandwich."

"That's not a meal. Come on. The kitchen's closed, but I can make eggs."

I tucked the clipboard under my arm and followed him down.

The lodge's back stairs were old wood with a rail on one side.

The third step from the bottom had a board that shifted.

I stepped on it and my foot slid.

His hand caught my elbow before I fell.

He kept it there, steady under the joint, and said, "That one's been loose since January."

"You might have mentioned it."

"I meant to put it on your list."

I laughed. It was the first time I had laughed in four days.

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