Page 5 of A Flowering of Ink

But helikedDevon, or he thought he did. He liked the person who shared his sense of humor, who’d shared art with him. He wanted to spend more time with that person. Even if only on a page, in ink and words and shapes.

Three days after that, he was lying on some sun-warmed rocks and sticking a monitor into the bed of a tide pool when Mike materialized behind him. “Mail came.”

“What? Ow.” Burne hit his elbow on the rock, shooting upright. “That’s early!”

“Nah, you’ve just been busy. Put something on your desk. Looks like a book. Feels like a book.”

“A book?”

“There’s dried grass in your hair.”

“There’s what? Oh—thanks, it gets everywhere—oh, damn, that’s not properly anchored—”

“I’ll fix it. Go on.”

“Really?”

“It’s what grad students are for. Being helpful. If it’s a book, can I borrow it later? I’ve read everything I brought.”

“Maybe. Thanks again—”

“Comb your hair!” Mike yelled at his back, laughing. Burne contemplated the relative dignity of PhD candidates versus associate professors, and finally just ran away.

He did try to run hasty fingers through his hair, in his office. And then he wondered why—not as if he were about to have a video chat—and cleared his throat and sat down. Professorial. In charge of the situation. His chair creaked, snickering at him.

The small box on his desk had a post-office printed label. But the name, the return address—

Burne shut his eyes, opened them. Knew he was grinning, ear to ear. Did not care whether anyone, grad students or dried roots or computer data, saw.

He opened the box. He found the book, which had a letter tucked inside, which he discovered upon picking up the book and hastily catching the envelope as it slid. Pages opened; a beautiful spray of illustrated purple needlegrass,Nasella pulchra, displayed hand-drawn antique color for him. Entranced, Burne drifted through a few more chapters, basked in a fifty-years-ago author’s love of California wild oats and lemonade berry.

Devon had sent him a book. A gorgeous book.

And a letter. He pounced on it.

He read it. And then read it again, slowly.

He put his feet up on his desk, in the corner that was used to that, and read it a third time.

So much, in those flowing sentences. So much revealed, and also not. Those compliments given to Burne so freely, such kindness. The understanding, in those words about loving this work, this field, the joy of discovering more about the world and the earth and the life upon it. That was real and true and beautiful, and he loved that Devon saw that too.

Some of those other words—

His Devon had wanted to be an artist, and instead worked as an architect. But that was wrong, it wasn’t aninstead, because Devonwasan artist, despite self-deprecation. The sketches now hung up in Burne’s office argued that, persuasively.

His Devon had gone out to a bookshop, and had written:I’m a bit proud of myself for doing that…As if that task might be a hardship, requiring courage. And, later:I’ll mail this tomorrow if I can.

If?

Burne felt his hand tighten on the paper. He made himself relax, consciously so. Not crumpling those lines.

If something was wrong, if Devon was—

Was what? Ill, injured, elderly, trapped at home somehow? By someone? Those were all assumptions; hell, Burne didn’t even know whether Devon lived alone, or for that matter any pronouns or descriptions or even an age. They didn’tknoweach other.

His office window was open. The cool air prickled against his arm.

If his Devon needed help—

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