“We’d like to get him stabilized in the ambulance,” said the female officer.

“He’s fine.” I stepped in the way.

“We can’t be sure about that, given your call. Excuse me—”

The paramedics popped open the back of the ambulance and Matt’s eyes widened. He pulled against the officer’s grip.

“Mr. Sky, it’s all right, we just want to make sure you’re—”

His nostrils flared. He tried to yank his arm free and the two paramedics grabbed him. Oh shit, this was not going to end well.

“Stop it!” I shrieked. “Please.” I forced my way to Matt and cupped his face. His wild eyes panned over mine. They didn’t catch with recognition. “Matt, listen. We have to get in the ambulance, and then we’ll get out. No big deal. Come on…”

I stepped backward and he followed.

We climbed into the ambulance together.

He sat on the stretcher while the paramedics checked his eyes and cleaned his feet, which were cut in several places. They kept asking for a verbal okay. I squeezed his hand.

“He’s had a shock,” I said.

“We need to make sure he’s not in shock. We’re trying to prevent—”

“I’m okay.” Matt’s voice silenced everyone. I stared at him and kissed his hand. The paramedics frowned at one another.

“There,” I said, “he’s okay. And his brother’s a doctor and he’s coming tomorrow, and he has a psychiatrist, and I’ll watch him around the clock, so…”

The paramedics and I argued for twenty minutes—it felt like forever—while Matt sat on the stretcher and stared at his feet.

Finally, with a lot of “at your own risk” warnings, they left.

Matt was docile, completely tractable as I led him into the house.

I held his hand and took out my cell. I wanted to handcuff him to me. A firm grip was the next-best thing.

“I’m calling Nate, okay?” I said.

He gazed at the floor. Fuck, had I made a mistake in sending away EMS? The silence of the house closed around us. I tightened my hold on his hand.

I knew, I just knew, that if I’d let the paramedics take him to the hospital, and the physicians there got hold of his medical records, they would “move him” to a psych ward … medicate him, observe him, put those pitiful socks with paw-shaped grips on his feet. His room would have Plexiglas windows. His meals would come with only a plastic spoon.

I rubbed brimming tears across my sleeve. You’ve got to hold it together.

Nate answered the call instantly.

“Hannah, what’s happening?”

“He’s here. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

I stumbled through a narrative of the night. Matt appeared oblivious. Now, it was Nate’s turn to panic. “Can I talk to him?” he said. “I don’t like this. He needs a hospital.”

“Um, lemme see.” I muffled the cell against my shirt. “Matt? You wanna talk to Nate?”

Matt’s foggy stare stuck to the floor. He shook his head and I stroked his knuckles.

“That’s okay, baby.” I lifted the phone. “He can’t talk right now.”

“Hannah, goddamn it. Is he there?”

“Yes, and he’s fine. He … said he doesn’t want to talk. Maybe tomorrow.”

Nate chastised me for dismissing the ambulance and demanded a picture of Matt, which I took and texted as we talked. I sort of angled the shot to avoid the muddled look on Matt’s face. That would go away soon … right?

“If something happens,” Nate said, “if he disappears again—”

“I’ve got this,” I snapped, but cringed immediately. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s been—”

“I know. Look, go on. Please call tomorrow. Call or text with any updates.”

I gave Nate promises and assurances and said good-bye.

“He’s doing fine,” I told Matt as I led him up the stairs. Silence. I smiled and chattered away as if nothing had happened. A thought flashed through my mind—am I the one in shock?—but I dismissed it. I couldn’t afford to worry about me right now.

In the bathroom, I cleaned his face with a damp washcloth and he pulled off his shirt.

“I’m … so sorry,” I said. “About—”

He looked at me sharply. The motion startled me.

He shook his head once—a gesture I would learn meant we aren’t talking about that—and climbed onto the air mattress in the bedroom.

Chapter 30

MATT

I eased my finger off the trigger of my pistol, relaxed my hands on the grip, and lowered the gun. The sound of its shot still sang in my ears. Four of the five cans that I had balanced on the fence now lay in the grass.

There is a clean, controlled violence in shooting. And now that I owned almost three hundred acres, I hardly needed to visit a range.

I left one can standing.

I walked back to the house, but circuitously, roaming through the woods and splashing cold creek water on my face.

Lately, I spent more time outdoors than in. Nate was visiting. Hannah worked from home. Mike made house calls three times a week. I had nothing to say to them, though. They suffocated me with their concern.

I slipped into the house by the back door, kicked off my boots in the mudroom, and hurried upstairs. I knew Hannah would be waiting for me in the family room. Sure enough—no sooner had I reached my study than I heard her bounding up the stairs.