Come In and Cover Me by Gin Phillips Page B

love running across the road this time of the day,” said Ed, taking a quick look. “It’s suicide alley.”
    Silas was removed in a way she was coming to recognize. He was transparent at times, and at other times he completely disappeared. One second he could be joking and holding court, filling up the car or the porch or the open air with the force of his presence. Then that very presence that drew them all to his every word would collapse like a star turned—what did stars turn into? Supernovas—no, black holes. In any case, he would be gone, vanished into his own head. He’d been gone ever since the restaurant. She disliked feeling him turn inward. She herself was skilled at not getting caught in her own head.
    Another creek crossing. Then another. The water was solid black, reflecting nothing, and even though she knew its shallowness, Ren could not shake the feeling that each time the wheels tipped into the water, they were all plunging into an abyss.
    She wished this were not an excavation she cared so desperately about. To get involved with someone on a dig risked the entire project—all the drama and emotion of the personal contaminated the professional. She’d seen it happen to others, but she had never been tempted. She resented the timing of the temptation. This dig, more than any other, she did not want to risk.
    She looked over at Silas. She enjoyed how his mind worked and the length of his eyelashes. She thought about houseplants.
    â€œI can’t believe you wouldn’t do a shot of Jäger with me,” said Paul to the car in general.
    â€œIt’s like drinking motor oil,” said Ed.
    Paul swung one foot onto the dashboard with a thud. Ed swatted it back to the floor.
    â€œI spent some time at El Barrio Inglés in Roatán, Honduras, on this ethnographic research project,” said Silas.
    Ren thought she could hear the slightest rustle of cotton against upholstery, the sound of them all settling back against their seats, anticipating a story. They could all surely feel the shift in his mood, the energy radiating outward once more, the light turned on.
    â€œMy dad had ordered me not to go, and I was in a rebellious phase,” he continued. “He said I should wait and go on a project where someone could watch after me. He said I’d get my head cut off and stuck on a stick. My dad hadn’t really traveled much. And I was looking for any chance to prove that I was tough enough and good enough. I was supposed to be looking at how native diets had changed from historic times to present times.”
    Ren wished he would say more about his father, and at the same time she wondered why he bothered to mention his father at all. The reference had been unnecessary.
    â€œAnyway, they don’t like outsiders too much in the barrio,” continued Silas. “I had a contact who was supposed to hook me up with the locals. It turned out he looked like a very tan Andre the Giant, and he took me on this never-ending tour of the surrounding hillsides. He didn’t even bring water the first day. The second day he did the same thing, letting me get a feel for the land, he said, and this time I brought my own water and kept my mouth shut. I thought maybe it was some sort of test. Either that or he really was going to kill me and hide my body in the underbrush. The idea of my head on a stick did occur to me. On our way back to town the second day, he said, ‘So what are you going to do here?’ I told him I needed to ask people some questions about what they ate. He said, ‘Then what?’ I told him the answers would tell us if their diet was healthy. He shook his head and said, ‘No—what are you going to do after you ask the questions?’
    â€œI thought about it and told him I didn’t really have anything planned. He said, ‘Do you like rum?’
    â€œThe next morning he had a few dozen kids and adults show up. I