I'm fine, I write, which is a total lie. I show it to Ashen without looking at him. “I know,” he says, but he doesn't withdraw his touch. I'm not crying. “Okay.” I hear the wheels and leather straps of another coach in the distance along a side road in the fog. My muscles tense and I wipe one of my eyes with the knuckles of my clenched fist. This place is fucked. And I lied. “I know.” Ashen's index finger travels a slow and careful path across my skin as the rest of his hand lays steady pressure across my bones.
