Page 38 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“It’s not about the op.” Toby unzips his sleeping bag a little to let in some air. Two bodies in a small tent produce a considerable amount of warmth, and it’s not that cold a night to begin with.

“What is it, then?” Mike turns onto his side, facing Toby. “Spit it out so that we can get your mind on the job.” He grumbles something that sounds a lot like, And so that I can get some fucking sleep.

Toby deliberately ignores that last part; it’s not his problem if Mike’s a sensitive sleeper. He considers telling Mike to fuck off, but he’s tired, and warm, and it’s dark and Mike is close. “Haley’s summer break starts in a couple of weeks. My brother always takes her somewhere in summer—somewhere exotic where he can drool over girls in bikinis while Hal gets to play on the beach. Drinks with little pink umbrellas, a chance to tackle the reading list. I usually join them for a week or two.”

“Sounds terrible,” Mike says dryly. “I can see why you’d lose sleep over the prospect.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Toby tells him absently. “It’s just that this year, with him just setting up a business... Maybe this year, I should take her somewhere for a while, just me and her, so he has some uninterrupted time on his hands. That way he can enjoy a holiday with her later, once he feels like he’s in a better place with his work.”

Mike makes a humming sound. “You’re a damn good brother, you know? And a damn good uncle, too. It’s nice.”

“I had to be.” Toby pushes the sleeping bag down to his chest. “Haley was two when her mom died—cancer. It was an ugly time, trust me. Matt—that’s my brother, Matt—he was only nineteen, and while our parents did a lot, they don’t live nearby. It made sense that I’d step in.”

He doesn’t mention that they repaid him tenfold after Jada left—in those black, bleak months when he threw himself headfirst into the job to avoid facing some uncomfortable truths, Matt and Haley had been his only anchors to sanity.

Over and done.

“You can’t have been much older.”

“Four years. Big difference between nineteen and twenty-three.”

“Still, you’re a good brother. A very good brother.”

Mike’s tone leaves no room for doubt, so Toby doesn’t argue. Somewhere outside, a nocturnal bird releases a guttural call. Animal voices were part of Toby’s training, but he can’t pinpoint this one, would probably file it as a type of Guácharo. It isn’t important, but it distracts him from Mike’s intimate proximity.

Unexpectedly, Mike speaks again, his voice low. “You’re a much better brother than I am. My sister and I were split up when we were quite young, after our parents died. It’s…” He shifts, the synthetic material of his sleeping bag whispering against the tarpaulin. “It’s tough, getting that closeness back when you missed such a large portion of the other’s life.”

“How old were you?”

A moment of silence passes before Mike asks, “When we were separated or when we met again?”

“Either. Both.” Toby rolls towards Mike even though he can’t make out much in the darkness. Mike’s hand is resting just inches from Toby’s face. It would be easy to cover it, even easier to lean forward and erase all space between them, but Toby doesn’t.

“She was seven, I was eight, and then we didn’t see each other for nearly fifteen years. It’s a hell of a long time.” Mike exhales heavily. “I shouldn’t have allowed them to split us up.”

Christ, does Mike blame an eight-year-old boy for not standing up to the world?

“You were a child.” Toby shakes his head, the hood of his sleeping bag rustling with the motion. “You were only eight and your parents had just died—don’t blame yourself for something that was never your decision. Nothing you told me makes you a bad brother.”

Mike’s reply is delayed by several seconds, and when it comes, it isn’t actually a reply; he simply rolls onto his back and says, “We should catch some sleep.”

“Mike,” Toby begins.

“Tomorrow will be a long day,” Mike interrupts smoothly. “Good night, Toby.”

Toby squints into the darkness, trying to make out more than the vague shape of Mike’s profile. He considers forcing the issue, thinks about reaching over and demanding that Mike talk to him, but…

But it isn’t Toby’s place.

“Good night,” he replies softly.

They don’t speak again after that, the noises of the forest wrapping them up like a blanket: nocturnal animals going about their business, whispering leaves, the occasional groan of a tree in the wind. It’s still warm inside the tent, and when Toby finally drifts off, he does so listening to Mike’s breathing that has yet to grow slow and deep.

VII. Chapter Two

A full day of observation yields the following results:

They’re looking at roughly forty terrorists and a barn full of weapons.

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