The Lost Sun
she says again.
    “Yes.” My breathing picks up speed. “Um, yes. What?”
    “Are you all right?”
    “Just … thinking. I need to exercise. It—it keeps me grounded and reminds me about what I can do—could do—if I let the battle-rage take me. I haven’t run through a routine in almost two days .”
    “All right. Go.”
    I hesitate.
    “Soren, I’ll be fine.” She puts her hands on my chest and pushes gently. “Take your sword, fling it around. Go.” The chill from her cold skin seeps through my shirt, making me tingle everywhere.
    My voice barely finds a path out: “You should get into the car. It’s only getting colder.”
    “When you come back, you’ll be nice and warm, like my own big oven. There are some convenient aspects to having a fever all the time.”
    My desire to kiss Astrid—to lift her up off the ground so that all her weight rests in my arms, to hold her close and bury my face in her licorice hair—destroys every piece of my vocabulary.
    Fortunately, she slips away to untie my spear from the roof of the Spark.
    By the time I return, it’s fully dark, and all my sweat has frozen to my skin. My eyesight is adjusted so I don’t skid or stumble along the gravel road. It was difficult climbing out of the small gorge I chose, and I nearly put my hand into a tiny cactus. But my blood still sings with the edge of the battle-dance and even now I walk with a bounce in my step. I’m strong and in the middle of an adventure with Astrid. We have food and shelter, and if no showers, at least there are covered toilets on site. What else could I need?
    I reach the Spark only to find it empty. In a moment of hot terror, I spin around, raising my spear. My body thrums with bowstring tension.
    Then her laughter rings out from the neighbors’ camp. Peering, I barely make out Astrid’s silhouette against the background of their pop-up. She sits in a low folding chair. Red lightfrom the embers of their charcoal grill highlights the springing curls of her hair.
    Beside her and across the fire are two people: a man and a woman. The man is telling a story, using precise hand gestures.
    As my heart resumes its regular pace, I put away my spear and grab a new shirt and my jeans from my backpack. Changing helps me feel less grungy, but I fold my dirty clothes to use again for exercise tomorrow. Taking a final calming breath, I head for Astrid.
    They’re all three laughing when I arrive. “Soren,” Astrid says, holding out her hand. I take it and stand beside her as if it’s where I belong.
    The man gets to his feet. “Hi there, I’m Elijah Kelsey. This is my wife, Abby.” He touches his heart with his right middle fingers in a greeting of respect. I nod and return the salute. “Miss Astrid has been telling us about your trip,” Elijah continues, stopping abruptly when he sees my tattoo. A significant look passes between him and his wife; my body goes rigid. But Abby smiles at me, and her husband follows her example after a fraught moment.
    Astrid squeezes my hand, tugging at me so I crouch beside her. She doesn’t remove her hand from mine. It’s like a gift. I struggle to focus past it in order to say, “Thank you for hosting Astrid while I was away.”
    “She’s delightful.” Abby bends down to pick a long skewer from its holder below the grill. “Marshmallow?” She offers me the skewer, along with a half-full bag of jumbo marshmallows.
    I accept, and while my marshmallow blackens, Astrid tellsme that the Kelseys are enjoying a second honeymoon along the same route they took for their first twenty years ago.
    “We were only eighteen,” Abby says, pulling her bouncy brown hair into a braid. “We committed in a little chapel and had the papers signed by a tyr an hour later.”
    “All our stuff was in the back of the Volvo,” Elijah continues, “and we just took off! Stopped at every monument and park and historic site in thirteen kingstates. Took three months, and you know, it was the

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