Page 69 of What Doesn't Kill Her

Max gave Kellen and their little girl a moment of cuddling, then reached for Rae. “Rae, Mommy needs to go to sleep.”

“Can’t go to sleep. Need the bathroom.” Kellen sat up slowly. “And a shower.”

“No one can argue with that,” Zone spoke from the kitchen in the other corner of the room. “Your sweet feminine odor could attract flies—if we had any at this elevation.”

Kellen eyed him evilly. “You’re a charmer.”

“Bathroom, yes,” Max said firmly. “A shower can wait. You can’t get that bandage wet anyway.”

Kellen smelled like three days of sweat, terror and effort. She needed a shower more than food, more than fluids, more than good sense. “IsaidIwanta shower.”

When Max protested again, Zone came over with a garbage bag and duct tape. “Why waste your breath?” he said to Max. “She’s going to do what she wants.” And he went to work protecting Kellen’s arm from water. When he was satisfied she would keep the wound dry, he gave her the go-ahead.

“I’ll need help,” Kellen said.

Hands up, Zone backed away. “Don’t look at me. I’m retired from sex, but I’m not dead.” He turned to Max. “You two had the kid. You’ve seen her naked.”

Max made the slight pained sound of a man under torture.

If Kellen had any strength left, she would have slugged them both.

“I’ll help Mommy!” Rae hopped to her feet.

“Perfect,” Kellen said. “Thank you, Rae.”

“Mommy, it’s the neatest bathroom ever. The toilet is like an airplane, and the faucet shuts off by itself, and the shower has a chain to pull when you want the water on. I’ll pull your chain!”

Zone snorted.

“Sweetheart, I know you will.” Kellen slid an arm around Rae’s shoulders. “You keep me steady, okay?”

“Okay! Mommy, Zone has canned Spam. Grandma won’t let me have Spam because it’s fatty and disgusting, but Daddy fried slices in the skillet and I ate a Spam sandwich with mustard and kale.”

Kellen’s stomach growled.

“And yogurt with canned peaches and a Twinkie!”

Kellen shut the narrow bathroom door behind them.

The two men stared at it, hearing Rae’s cheerful, chatting voice and Kellen’s occasional quiet reply.

Zone turned to Max. “Start frying the Spam. I’ll open the peaches. Fuck, women are a pain in the ass.”

27

Kellen wore a clean pair of her own leggings and one of Max’s oversize T-shirts, sat at the table and ate the Spam and kale sandwich and the peaches and yogurt, and to keep her company, Rae ate, too.

“Growth spurt on the way,” Zone muttered, his gaze on Rae. When he saw Kellen watching him, he turned away.

Who was he? Kellen had had enough stitches to know these looked like a professional had done them. So he was a doctor? Medic? Nursing professional?

It sounded like he knew about children. So he was a father?

And he was the Restorer, a man whose reputation for verification was so stellar that Nils Brooks sent a valuable artifact on a dangerous countrywide trek to be authenticated by him. According to the bicyclists, he was a jerk. And of course, a recluse, hiding on top of a mountain apart from everyone, despising the world, its people and its frivolities.

Interesting. “I’m sorry about the goddess, Zone. I had to leave her out there.”

“No problem,” Zone said. “Di Luca brought it in.”

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