I don’t know how it happens. I really don’t. I certainly don’t do it on purpose. But my hand seems to move on its own. Down Travis’s arm. Lingering at his wrist. Then he’s taking my hand. I squeeze his. I can’t help it. And he holds on firmly even after my fingers loosen, so I couldn’t pull my hand away even if I wanted to. I don’t want to. We hold hands as we keep walking.
