Later that night, the last of the smoke drifted away on the breeze, leaving Luke and Morel on the porch. In the pale light of Luna, the processing building was nothing but a smoldering skeleton. The last whiffs of the fire, smelling faintly of a hauntingly familiar gun oil and cheap cigarettes.

  Luke lifted his head and scanned what was left of the building. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the wreckage, one of their few hopes reduced to ash.

  He thumbed across the edge of his data slate, having just tucked it away after yet another person informed him they were safe after today's tragic events.

  He prayed silently to the universe that no one else would be injured. He had seen enough messages about that for a lifetime, much less a single evening.

  No one was killed in the fire, but a dozen people were suffering from burns, cuts, bruises, and smoke inhalation.

  Every time his ringer chimed, it felt like a knife in his gut.

  These people had trusted him; they had given their time, their labor, and the day had paid them back in blood and smoke.

  If any of them would still trust him had yet to be seen. A few hinted they weren’t sure they’d return, muttering old rumors about Morel, and the shaky trust some still had in an outsider like him.

  Most had simply stayed silent after confirming they were safe, waiting for him to contact them.

  The worst news came from Hank. Brukus had it worst, second-degree burns on both arms. He wouldn’t be lifting anything heavy for the rest of the season.

  That the large alien man seemed to be in good spirits was the only gilded lining to such a loss.

  Hank sent a photo of the man. Brukus lay in a hospital bed, grinning while a nurse wrapped fresh bandages. The caption was a lewd joke about needing help in the bathroom, and of course, they volunteered Luke for the job.

  “So, what are we going to do now?” Keyil asked.

  “I don’t know,” Morel replied, hanging her head.

  “For now. Let’s go to bed,” Luke said. “It’s not like we are getting anything done tonight.”

  Keyil paused and looked at Luke for a long moment. A frustrated scowl formed on her face. To Keyil, Luke looked like a beaten dog; an insult to every sacrifice the town had made today.

  She herself had delayed a book release and moved into the workers' hut. If he made all she had given up mean nothing, she would fly him up for a long fall.

  Keyil’s eyes flicked to Morel. Morel met her gaze, then glanced at Luke, wordlessly, pleading for space.

  “Alright,” Keyil exhaled through her nose, answering both Luke's and Morel's desires.

  She flapped her wings twice and headed off toward the workers' hut, where the few dozen men who were staying on site lingered near the door.

  One of the men handed Keyil a beer as she landed upon the porch and offered the bet-like alien a seat. She joined them, the workers having accepted the shut-in woman as their manager and friend.

  With the ease of a diplomat and the bite of a datanet troll, Keyil deflected questions about the farm's next steps while Morel and Luke go inside the main house.

  Keyil and the men would be up for hours, nursing their battered pride with drink, jokes, and companionship—while only a few yards away, the farm's owner helped her man through another strife-filled patch of life.

  Unlike all the other nights when Morel and Luke were getting ready for bed, there was no late-night tea, a chat about the day, or anything pastoral; Morel went upstairs to shower, while Luke got to work feeding his paranoia.

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  Luke, as silent as a specter in the night, went from room to room, window to window, locking each possible egress point. He barred them, shuttered them, and drew the curtains, sealing the house and its inhabitants off from the threats lurking in the darkness just beyond the amber porchlight.

  The bunnies and Ember watched in silence as Luke checked every dark corner for threats, wiretaps, and whatever else his mind insisted might be waiting beyond the porchlight.

  Ember and Button followed Luke, silently observing as one of their caregivers fed his maddening mind. They were ignored by him until he tripped over them in the darkness, sending him stumbling into the coffee table.

  Papers and coasters showered him, fluttering in the wan light, drifting down like snow, coating him and the living room.

  He levered up from the ground, crushing papers in clenched fists, a rumble of agitation welling in his chest.

  His baleful gaze found them quickly. He scooped up the papers, ready to snap, until Button and Ember pressed against his leg, looking up at him like they understood. The anger drained out of him all at once. Their innocence and honest concern for his strange behavior pulled him back down to earth.

  After petting and assuring the two fuzzy creatures and cleaning up the mess, Luke ambled upstairs to clean all the soot off himself. The warm water did little to calm him; the usual feeling of washing away the world’s problems never arrived.

  The water warmed his skin, but the dread stayed cold and lodged in his chest, like a blizzard he couldn’t shake. That feeling remained within him until, wearing nothing but his boxers, he entered his and Morel's room.

  Her smile, as bright and welcoming as a summer's day, pressed against that feeling, reminding him why dread could not consume him; other things in his life were more important than his own feelings, paramount amidst what he treasured was her.

  She lay in bed, the green blankets cascading over her womanly figure. She slid the blanket back and opened her arms, wordlessly inviting him in.

  He joined her in bed, her warmth giving him sanctuary within the difficult night. Her touch reassured him that everything could be alright, and that today was tragic but a setback. But despite that assurance, Luke could not cast away the thought lingering in the back of his mind—a haunting thought about his past and who he believed to be responsible for the fire.

  “You think Rory set the fire, don’t you?” Morel said, reading his mind, and having seen the beginning of his defensive attempts, running her hand across his back, while he caressed the tip of her tail.

  “Maybe,” Luke admitted. “But if it were Rory… he would’ve made sure people died.”

  “Then it wasn’t him,” Morel said quietly. “Sometimes… things just go wrong.”

  “They do, but this feels like a scene out of a B-rate holoflick. That doesn’t just happen,” Luke argued.

  Morel could not argue with the fact that the situation did seem quite cliché. But that in no way meant it was not reality. But as Luke had done for her in her time of panic, she would do the same and support him.

  She cupped Luke's chin and looked into his eyes. “Come on now. Tell me why you think it might be him, then let’s lay out why it’s not.”

  They rested their foreheads against one another's as Luke explained his thought process; even Morel had to admit, by the end of it, she did not fully believe Rory was not involved, but for Luke's sake, she had to remain firmly at her Occam's razor stance.

  Rory’s history was nightmare fuel—firebombings, massacres, assassinations. Things Luke should never have known about. But a blessing of his being such a non-note for his family was an uncanny ability to linger in rooms without them noticing. Luke knew very early on what his family had Rory do. But unlike Luke’s negligent menage, Rory knew Luke understood just what kind of monster the man was.

  Rory, throughout Luke's life, was more than happy to tell the young man about his exploits, murder, and political espionage. No matter how vile, Luke knew about it all and was shown proof, video, and photographic evidence.

  With that revelation, Morel understood why Luke had spent so much time closing all the doors and windows. Anyone who would do something so vile would put her on edge, and Luke had years of evidence to bite at his heart.

  “I just can’t shake the feeling it was him,” Luke said, shaking in Morel’s arms.

  She held him tightly, assuring him softly. “It wasn’t Luke. Even you said that he would have killed people. No one died, everything is all right.”

  “I know,” Luke muttered, lowering his head into her bust, the almond scent not even allowing him to settle.

  Silence stretched between them, not even the sounds of nature breached the room, only their heartbeats and breath were audible, until Luke whispered. “I’m afraid.”

  “I am too,” Morel replied. “Even if it was them… we can’t let it stop us. We adjust. We adapt. We keep going.”

  Morel watched as Luke peeked up at her, the fear and sorrow still lingering in his eyes. “We promised that we would make it no matter what sug’. So are you with me?”

  “I am,” Luke said, scooting back to adjust so they were both on the pillows again. “First thing in the morning, we will have to rewrite all our plans.” He continued, lying back and looking up at the ceiling.

  “That’s my man,” Morel replied, leaning over and kissing his cheek.