She was listening. And she looked warm in his arms.
X talked for another hour. They were out of the mountains now. They were on a road lined with evergreens. X saw poles strung with wires. He felt civilization rising up to greet them. Still, it would take them ages to reach her father.
As if she’d read his thoughts, Zoe stirred in his arms and spoke.
“Why are you walking?” she said.
Her voice was flat and tuneless, but he was grateful to hear it.
“Why aren’t we zooming—or whatever you call it?” she added.
“I have seen the effect that zooming produces in you,” said X, “so zooming must be our last resort. In truth, I am happy to walk—for the more slowly we go, the longer I can hold you.”
Zoe was quiet a moment.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “But it’s okay to zoom.” After another silence, she added, “Do you really call it zooming? I was just guessing.”
“No, we don’t call it that,” said X. Fearing that he’d been unkind, he quickly added, “But we certainly can.”
Satisfied, Zoe withdrew into her thoughts again. The moon, appearing to follow her cue, ducked behind the clouds once more. Even to X, the darkness was alarming.
eighteen
The instant Zoe awoke, she knew her father was near.
She lay in a bare wooden hut on a beach in what she guessed was British Columbia, the ocean crashing and sighing on every side of her. She could feel her own version of the Trembling spreading beneath her skin. Her heart, her nerves, her lungs—everything in her body told her how close her father was.
X was not beside her. Zoe remembered only flashes from the night before: the hut had been locked, and X had smashed his fist through the door so they could get in. He’d warmed the place by simply rubbing his hands together, but still they’d slept huddled against each other, as if they were in danger of freezing. X had made a pillow for her out of his coat.
An hour ago—could it have been more? she wasn’t sure—X had opened the door, and a wedge of sunlight had fallen across her face. She’d woken, briefly. He told her he’d be back. He told her to keep sleeping. It was such a lovely thing to be told: “Keep sleeping.”
Zoe’s mind must have churned as she slept because she woke up knowing exactly what she and X had to do about her father. The answer had been sitting in her brain for hours, waiting for her to awake. She knew X wouldn’t like it. She’d have to find the right time—and the right way—to tell him.
She sat up and leaned back against the wall. The place was one of those changing-room huts that families rented on the beach during the summer. It was tiny. There were hooks for clothes and rough wooden drawers. Otherwise the inside of the hut was stark, white, and empty. Zoe could hear the wind whistling outside. When she peered through the slats in the wall, she saw a line of snow-covered trees leaning almost horizontally over the edge of the cliffs.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. It was 8 a.m. There was a string of texts from her mother, beginning with one that read, What do you MEAN you won’t be home? There was also one from Dallas (Do you really like the quilt I got you? I got a gift receipt just in case), and one from Val (Why isn’t your butt at school?! Is your butt malfunctioning?!)
To Dallas, she texted: I love the quilt, shut up, go away.
To Val, she wrote, Loooong story. Who told you about my butt??
To her mother … Well, what could she say?
Zoe stared down at the phone, and began typing:
I’m in Canada, I think.
CANADA? YOU THINK?!
Road trip. Hard to explain. I will be home soon. Pls don’t freak.
Waaaay past freaked. Who are you with?
…
WHO are you WITH?
…
Zoe? Are you there?
I’m with X.
Zoe couldn’t explain the situation. Not in the state she was in. For all she knew, X was on his way back with her father right this minute.
She stuffed the phone in her pocket, put on X’s coat, and pushed open the door.
The hut turned out to be on stilts, and—because the tide was high—standing in three feet of frigid water. The outside walls were bright red. On either side of it, there were identical huts, painted yellow and powder blue. Zoe had planned to walk on the beach, but the ladder at her feet was so swamped with water it had begun to float. She might as well have been on a houseboat.
Zoe sat in the doorway, the cold sun on her face, the wind playing games with her hair.
She tried not to think about her mother. Her mom would understand—eventually.
She tried not to think about her father. When she did think of him, all that came to her was a rage so dark it was like a storm front. Maybe that was for the best. She was going to need her anger.