“Oh!” Isobel’s hands rushed to cover her mouth, so her suppressed scream came out as a high-pitched squeak. She fought the urge to shut her eyes and watched, horrified, as he careened toward the ledge. The strap of his bag snagged on the corner of an upturned shingle and ripped from his grasp. He skidded to the end of the roof, managing to reposition himself at the last second, just in time for the heels of his boots to catch against the gutter, hands braced out on either side of him.
He stopped. Isobel breathed again.
The knock at her door was more insistent this time. “Isobel, is everything all right in there?”
“Fine!” she called. Putting a foot on her window ledge, she hoisted herself up and grasped the shade, pulling it down. “Just . . . give me a second, okay?” She undid the ties on her curtains and drew them together. Turning, she tore across her room and barreled into her closet. She yanked her pink robe from its hanger, threw it around herself, pushed her arms through the sleeves, and tied the belt haphazardly around her waist. Gripping the collar closed so her dad wouldn’t see her T-shirt, she scuttled to the door and opened it a crack.
“Yeah?” she asked, trying to make her breathing seem normal.
Her dad stepped closer and put the toe of his shoe between the door and the door frame. Isobel pushed in on the door. He squinted down at her suspiciously, then peered past her, over her head.
“Dad,” she said, “I am trying to get ready to take a shower.”
“Oh,” he said. The lie worked, and her father leaned back again, removing his shoe. “I thought I heard you yell.”
“I was on the phone,” she answered, having had the excuse ready.
“Everything all right?”
“Yep!” She flashed a smile.
“Okay.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, but didn’t turn to leave.
“Okay,” she echoed, and pressed the door shut.
“Listen,” he said, jamming the door with his foot again, “you didn’t hear anything on the roof, did you? Mom says she thought she might have heard that raccoon again.”
“No!” Isobel answered quickly—maybe too quickly. She tried to wipe her face clear of any knowing. “No,” she repeated. “Nothing.”
“Well,” he said, “do you mind if I take a look?”
“Dad!” she screeched. She pushed his foot out with her own, then clamped the door shut in his face. “Just wait till I’m in the shower! I am naked!”
“Okay! Okay! I’ll wait, I’ll wait!”
Isobel stood another moment at the door, her ear pressed against it, listening. After the sound of quiet shuffling, she cracked it again and saw him tromp down the stairs, muttering to himself.
She shut the door and turned the lock, then padded back to the window and heaved it open.
“What are you doing?” she hissed into the darkness.
She could see him at the roof’s ledge, inching backward toward her window crab-style, until he had at least a foot between him and the drop-off.
Isobel pulled herself out through the window. She crouched on the sill and leaned out into the sharp air, a chilly wind whipping through her hair as she watched him rise to a standing position.
He stepped sideways up the slanted roof toward her, one foot carefully following the other as he moved with all the agility of a tightrope walker.
Varen said nothing as he drew nearer, his jet-black hair stirring ever so slightly in the wind. He bent down along the way and scooped up the small nylon satchel that had snagged on the upturned roofing tile. When he came near enough, he grabbed hold of the window ledge and pulled himself forward. For the briefest moment, they came face-to-face. Their eyes locked.
Then he broke the stare, swiveled, and sank into a sitting position, chains clanking, with his knees up.
She watched him speechlessly as he set a cooler bag between his boots, like he was settling down to a picnic or something. An image of the contents as hospital blood bags, complete with juice-box straws, flashed through her mind.
Unfolding her legs, she made herself as comfortable as she could on the cold outer edge of the sill.
An intangible and unnameable charge electrified the space between them, and at first, neither one of them said anything. Another breeze rustled past, shaking the tree limbs and lacing the air with the spicy scent of dead leaves and chimney smoke.
Finally she heard him unzip the bag and watched him pull out a small cylinder.
“I thought you might like some crappy ice cream,” he said.
As Isobel’s eyes fixed on the carton, something inside of her broke. She felt it, a landslide. A flood of warmth followed, causing the tips of her fingers to burn against the cold frost of the carton as she accepted it with one hand.
