“Not really. I’m more of an indoor person, like you already know after the hike I cut short the other day.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I meant.” He shifts, leaning forward slightly. “I mean, what brought you here? To a small town’s visitor center. You know everything there is to know about local history. You could probably teach at a university somewhere if you wanted.”

The question catches me off guard. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it. I think about it constantly. But nobody’s ever asked me directly why I’m here instead of somewhere else, doing something that probably makes more sense for someone with my background.

“It’s complicated,” I say with a shrug, like it doesn’t matter.

“We’ve got time,” he echoes my earlier words back to me.

I look at him standing in the dim light, surrounded by taxidermy animals and cardboard boxes, waiting for me to answer. And for some reason, maybe because we’re stuck here together or because I’m tired of keeping everything to myself, I find myself wanting to open up and be honest with him.

Chapter Eleven

Sawyer

I watch her face change, like she’s deciding whether to trust me with something important.

“I was supposed to be teaching,” she says. “That was the plan, anyway. Get my master’s in history, find a position at a good school, spend my days talking about the things I care about.”

“So, what happened?”

She laughs. “Reality, mostly. I did my student teaching semester and realized that half the kids couldn’t care less about history, and the other half were only there because it was required. Trying to get eighth-graders excited about territorial mining laws when they’re more interested in their phones and finding a boyfriend or girlfriend…” She shakes her head. “It was exhausting.”

“So you gave up on teaching?”

“I gave up on fighting kids who didn’t want to learn. At least here, when someone asks me about the Gold Rush, they want to know the answer. Sure, some of them are a little eccentric and weird, but they’re also genuinely curious. That makes all the difference.”

“So you chose tourists over teenagers?”

“At least tourists tip,” she says with a smile.

I laugh. “Yeah, that’s a bonus. And they’re the kind of audience that wants to be here and learn, right?”

“Exactly. Imagine heading up a mountain with a group of disgruntled people who hate hiking. I’m sure you wouldn’t find it enjoyable.”

I pull a face. “Yeah, that sounds horrible.”

“Right? Plus, in here, I get to do research for the exhibits, write educational materials, work with local historical societies. It’s not university-level research, but it’s still meaningful work.” She pauses. “Most days, anyway.”

“What about the other days?”

“The other days, I wonder if I took the easy way out. If I should have stuck it out, found a different school, tried harder. My parents certainly think so.”

“What do they think you should be doing?”

“Teach at some prestigious prep school, publish papers, make a name for myself in academic circles. They don’t exactly understand why I prefer to explain local history to tourists.”

“Do you regret your choice?”

She bites her bottom lip. “Some days. But then someone like you comes in, actually interested in what I have to say, and I remember why I love what I do.” She looks up at me. “Even if you’re a terrible student and you’re only doing your best because you need to pass your ranger exam.”

“Hey, I’m getting better at taking notes every day.”

“Marginally,” she jokes.

“At least you got a guy like me interested in history. That’s saying something. Your work matters, Reese. What you do matters, no matter what your parents or anyone else thinks about it.”

“You think flattery will get you an A-plus on my test exams, huh?”