“Those Lost Boys are brave,” Mole mumbles while poking at the fire with a piece of wood. “I wish I could be like them.”
“What are you talking about?” Doc says. “You could have stayed behind in the Lost City where it’s safe, but instead you’ve chosen to be here with us. I think that’s extremely brave.”
Mole smiles meekly, appearing unconvinced.
Doc pulls a canteen from his rucksack. “Lean over. I’m going to wash the blood out of your hair.”
“No,” I protest. “That’s your water. You need it.”
“We’ll get more. Now quit arguing and lean your head over,” he says.
I remove my jacket and drop my head. The cool water brings goose bumps to the skin on the back of my neck as it streams through my hair and pools on the floor in front of me. In the dull light, I can see the red tint to the liquid.
“How bad is it?” I ask, worried by the amount of blood washed from my hair.
“A concussion is not great, but you’ll live,” Doc says.
“Isn’t that the truth,” Mole interjects. “I was always banging my head on stuff when I was little, especially when I was tall enough to whack my head on the kitchen counter. I cannot tell you how many bumps and cuts my mother patched up. She used to say it was a rite of passage, that when I was tall enough to hit my head on the counter instead of running right underneath it, I was officially a big kid.” Mole sighs and frowns. “I miss her.”
I place my hand on his leg. “I miss my mother, too.”
“There you go. It won’t take away the pain, but at least it’s clean.” Doc caps the canteen and returns the container to his rucksack, this time pulling out a package of biscuits. He offers me one, but my stomach churns at the smell of them. I turn away and hold my breath.
“The nausea will pass eventually,” Doc says, offering the biscuits to Mole, who eagerly takes a handful.
I run my fingers through my hair before squeezing the excess water from it. When I look back up, Doc’s stare is fixed on me, and one corner of his mouth is turned up in a lopsided grin.
“What is it?”
He shakes his head and drops his gaze to the fire. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me what you were thinking.”
In the orange gleam of the fire, I see his cheeks flush. He pokes at the embers. “I was just thinking that I can see what Pete sees in you,” he says. “You’re a brave girl trying to go back for your dad’s tags. Mad in the head, but still brave. You two are a lot like each other, maybe even more than you think.”
“You’re just now figuring that out?” Mole guffaws. “I knew she was brave when I first met her. I’d wager she’s more brave than Pete, but don’t tell him I said so. She’s pretty, too.”
“Pretty? How do you know she’s pretty?” Doc asks, staring at Mole with a puzzled expression. “You can’t even see her.”
Mole shakes his head. “You don’t have to see someone to know they’re pretty. She could be uglier than a croc and still be pretty. She’s nice, she smells of vanilla, and her voice is soothing. I think she’s beautiful.”
My face flushes under their compliments.
“Pete’s a lucky guy,” Mole says with a sigh.
“Pete? Pete and I are not … we’re not …,” I say, stumbling over my words.
Mole snorts. “I might be blind, but I know when someone’s in love.” He draws out the last word in a singsong tone. Pointing to his nose, he continues, “This sniffer can smell lovey-dovey pheromones from a mile away.”
Fiddling with the brass buttons on my jacket, I try to restrain the grin growing on my face. Feeling light-headed, I brush my hair from my face, occupying my hands to keep them from trembling. No one says anything for several moments, until an odd expression grows on Mole’s face as he sniffs.
“Someone’s coming,” Mole says, worry creasing a wrinkle between his brows.
Broken glass crunches beneath boots in the next room. A deep grunt followed by soft whispering comes from the room adjacent to the hallway. Doc snatches up a splintered wooden board. “Stay behind me,” he whispers.
Mole sniffs the air and his face softens. “Thank goodness,” he says.
“Who is it?” Doc asks. “What do you smell?”
“Greasy rooster,” Mole replies, chuckling and shuffling ahead of Doc.
Two boys appear in the doorway, out of breath and completely wet from head to toe. “You guys made it,” Pete says through chattering teeth as he brushes his wet hair out of his face.
I push past Doc. “What happened to you?”
Pete rushes by me toward the fire. Pickpocket follows. “We hid under a bridge in the Thames. That water is cold even during the summer.”
“At least you’re okay,” I say with a relieved sigh. It’s then I notice the dark stain on the arm of his forest-green coat. “You’re hurt!”
Pete huddles near the fire, holding his hands over the flames. “It’s just a scratch,” he says, his tone somber.