Chapter 4: Six A.M.

At six on Saturday morning, the river path was gray and empty and cold enough to see my breath.

Holt was waiting at the trailhead with two paper cups, and Bear was sitting beside him with his ears up.

"Coffee," Holt said, and held one out.

"For the dog?"

"For you. His is in the truck."

"Dogs can't have coffee."

"I said that was a joke."

"You said he'd hold it."

"He does hold it," Holt said. "Then he drops it on my boot."

I took the cup and tried not to smile into it.

Bear saw me and lost his mind.

He crossed the gravel in four bounds and wound himself around my legs, and the leash wrapped around me, then around Holt, then around me again.

"Stop," I said.

"He's thorough."

"He's tying us up."

Holt reached to unhook the clip, and his hand closed around my wrist to hold it still.

It was a big, warm hand, and it covered the whole width of my arm.

Neither of us moved.

"Rule," I said.

"Right."

"No touching."

"This is the leash."

"It's your hand."

"It's on the leash," Holt said, and looked down, because his thumb was lying across my pulse.

He took his hand away slowly.

"Sorry," he said, and he didn't sound it.

We walked.

The path ran along the river under a line of maples, and Bear stopped to read every post.

Holt didn't talk, and it was easier than I expected.

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