Inside the helmet I couldn't hear anything, only the bike's steady hum and the blood beating in my ears. The air flowed past me, dark and cool as water; cars' headlights and neon signs streamed by in bright lazy trails. Cassie's rib cage was slight and solid between my hands, shifting as she changed gears or leaned into a turn. I felt as if the bike was floating, high above the road, and I wished we were on one of those endless American freeways where you could drive on and on forever through the night.
She had been reading in bed when I rang. The futon was pulled out, made up with the patchwork duvet and white pillows;
"When did you last eat?" Cassie asked.
I had forgotten about my sandwiches, presumably still somewhere in the clearing. My sleeping bag and my thermos, too; I would have to get them in the morning, when I picked up my car. A fast finger ran down my neck at the thought of going back in there, even by daylight. "I'm not sure," I said.
Cassie rummaged in the wardrobe, passed me a bottle of brandy and a glass. "Have a shot of that while I make food. Eggs on toast?"
Neither of us likes brandy-the bottle was unopened and dusty, probably a prize from the Christmas raffle or something-but a small objective part of my mind was pretty sure that she was right, I was in some kind of shock. "Yeah, great," I said. I sat down on the edge of the futon-the thought of clearing all that stuff off the sofa seemed almost unimaginably complicated-and stared at the bottle for a while until I realized I was supposed to open it.
I threw down way too much brandy, coughed (Cassie glanced over, said nothing) and felt it kick in, burning trails of warmth through my veins. My tongue throbbed; I had apparently bitten it, at some point or other. I poured myself another shot and sipped it more carefully. Cassie moved deftly around the kitchenette, pulling herbs out of a cupboard with one hand and eggs out of the fridge with the other and shoving a drawer shut with her hip. She had left music on-the Cowboy Junkies, turned down low, faint and slow and haunting; normally I like them, but tonight I kept hearing things hidden somewhere behind the bass line, quick whispers, calls, a throb of drumbeat that shouldn't have been there. "Can we turn that off?" I said, when I couldn't stand it any longer. "Please?"
She turned from the frying pan to look at me, a wooden spoon in her hand. "Yeah, sure," she said after a moment. She switched off the stereo, popped the toast and piled the eggs on top of it. "Here."
The smell made me realize how hungry I was. I shoveled the food down in huge mouthfuls, barely stopping to breathe; it was whole-grain bread and the eggs were redolent with herbs and spices, and nothing had ever tasted so richly delicious. Cassie sat cross-legged at the top of the futon, watching me over a piece of toast. "More?" she said, when I had finished.
"No," I said. Too much too quickly: my stomach was cramping viciously. "Thanks."
"What happened?" she said quietly. "Did you remember something?"
I started to cry. I cry so seldom-only once or twice since I was thirteen, I think, and both those times I was so drunk that it doesn't really count-that it took me a moment to understand what was happening. I rubbed a hand across my face and stared at my wet fingers. "No," I said. "Nothing that does any good. I can remember all that afternoon, going into the wood and what we were talking about, and hearing something-I can't remember what-and going to find out what it was… And then I panicked. I fucking panicked." My voice cracked.
"Hey," Cassie said. She scooted across the futon and put a hand on my shoulder. "That's a huge step, hon. Next time you'll remember the rest."
"No," I said. "No, I won't." I couldn't explain, I'm still not sure what made me so certain: this had been my ace in the hole, my one shot, and I had blown it. I put my face in my hands and sobbed like a child.
She didn't put her arms around me or try to comfort me, and I was grateful for this. She just sat there quietly, her thumb moving regularly on my shoulder, while I cried. Not for those three children, I can't claim that, but for the unbridgeable distance that lay between them and me: for the millions of miles, and the planets separating at dizzying speed. For how much we had had to lose. We had been so small, so recklessly sure that together we could defy all the dark and complicated threats of the adult world, run straight through them like a game of Red Rover, laughing and away.
