Page 77 of Captive Omega

He picks up a red piece. “This one does,” he says, sounding distracted.

After a long moment, he returns the puzzle piece to the table and strokes his chin.

The logs in the fire crackle. Heat sweeps over me, and I regret sitting this close to the fireplace. This house runs on the cool side, temperature wise, but it’s not exactly throw a couple of logs on an open fire weather, though I do like the ambience.

I watch him for several seconds, bemused at the intense level of concentration he’s paying his puzzle.

Talk about focus.

“How many pieces?” I eventually ask after he fits three pieces near the right corner.

“Two thousand.”

My eyes pop. “Two thousand?”

He nods, head still lowered. “It’s very relaxing.”

When I think of how long it would take to finish a two thousand piece puzzle, relaxing isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. It’s how quickly I would lose patience and toss the lot in the fire.

Probably a week.

“How long have you been working on it?”

“Four months.”

My mouth falls open.

He lifts his head slightly, giving me a brief flash of hazel, flecked with amber. “It’s not continuous. When I have a lot on my mind, I work on this for an hour or so. Helps relax me enough to sleep.”

With my frequent bouts of insomnia, maybe I should start.

He slots in another teeny, tiny puzzle piece.

An old castle library is slowly taking shape. He must have another four months ahead of him at the glacial pace he’s going.

My fingers itch to just get it over and done with. I don’t, because I know myself. The second I start on that puzzle, frustration will beckon, and it’s going in the fire. And so will I because Garrison won’t take too kindly to four months of work going up in smoke.

Between the fire and watching him put this puzzle together, I can see myself falling asleep in this chair. Or I would be if the hilt of my knife didn’t keep jabbing me in my hip.

I lean to the side, pull the knife from my pocket, but I leave it on the chair beside me. Close. Just in case. Garrison doesn’t lift his head or even ask what I’m doing, though he must notice the way I’m squirming around in my chair.

He’s busy with his puzzle, and this fire is slowly becoming unbearable to me.

Except my feet. My hands and my feet are always cold, no matter how hot the rest of me is. My doctor said it was Raynaud's disease and there is no cure for it, just ways to improve poor circulation. Mom would always say, “Cold feet, warm heart.”

“Can I not have both?” I’d ask her. “Because needing to wear socks in summer while the rest of you cooks is no fun.”

She laughed and pulled me in for a hug, and I smiled, leaning into it, inhaling her warm toffee scent, as comforting and familiar to me as my childhood. I got used to wearing socks all the time and sticking my freezing hands under my armpit in winter to heat them up when I’d forget my gloves.

“Why do you start with the corners?” I ask, mostly to stop myself from falling asleep.

I hadn’t thought there was any science to puzzles other than open a box, empty the pieces onto the floor, and drive yourself crazy digging through the pieces to create something.

“Always easier to start with the outside edges. I sort first. Dig out the corners and sides. Then arrange the rest of the pieces into colors so I know which pile will belong in which section. The rest is about patience.”

And that right there is why I will never complete a puzzle.

“That doesn’t sound the least bit relaxing.” It sounds like homework.

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