“She asks too many questions.”
“Mara?”
“She gets weird when I mention certain places.”
“What places?”
“The Ridgeview Hotel. The coffee shop by Mercy General. Pine Road.”
Clay waited.
“Have you seen her somewhere?”
Lark pushed her glasses up her nose.
“I don’t know.”
“That sounds like you do.”
“She said she was at work, but I saw her car.”
“With someone?”
“I said I don’t know.”
Her shoulders drew inward.
Clay chose not to press harder.
“Next time you want to ride, tell me.”
“She’ll know.”
“I won’t announce it.”
Lark studied him.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
They replaced the final wire.
Clay turned the damaged tuning spindle with needle-nose pliers.
Static filled the garage.
Then the speaker cleared, releasing the low sound of a jazz saxophone from a Portland station.
Lark laughed.
The sound startled him because he had not heard it in weeks.
“We did it.”
“You did most of it.”
“You told me where to solder.”
“I provided consulting services.”
She leaned against his shoulder for half a second before pretending to adjust the radio.
Clay memorized the contact.
Later, lying awake beside Mara, he listened to the old radio playing softly through the wall from Lark’s room.
Mara arrived home at 1:37 in the morning.
She slipped into bed without speaking.
Cold air clung to her coat.
So did a floral perfume she did not normally wear.
The next afternoon, Clay was measuring a steel component at the machine shop when his phone rang.
Mercy General appeared on the screen.
He removed his ear protection.
“This is Clay.”
“Mr. Merrick, my name is Nina Davidson. I’m calling from emergency services regarding your daughter.”
The shop disappeared around him.
“What happened?”
“She was found near Pine Ridge Road beside a damaged bicycle.”
Clay gripped the edge of the worktable.
“Is she awake?”
“No. She sustained a serious head injury. The physicians have stabilized her, but you should come immediately.”
He did not remember driving across town.
He remembered the rain.
He remembered parking diagonally across two spaces.
He remembered running through automatic doors in steel-toed work boots while people moved aside.
A physician named Dr. Harlan met him outside the treatment area.
Lark had been found at the bottom of a wooded embankment. A motorist saw the bicycle near the shoulder and stopped.
Her injuries suggested a hard fall. The swelling around her brain required temporary medical sedation and close monitoring.
“The next forty-eight hours matter,” Dr. Harlan said.
“Will she wake up?”
“We have reasons to remain hopeful, but I cannot promise an outcome.”
Clay followed him to the room.
Lark looked impossibly small beneath the sheets.
He sat beside her and took her hand.
“Hey, kiddo.”
The machinery answered for her.
“Dad’s here.”
Mara arrived five hours later.
She wore a navy blazer and carried the purse she used for client meetings. Her makeup was fresh.
“I came as soon as I could leave,” she said.
Clay looked at the clock.
“You were notified at four.”
“I had to finish a meeting and arrange coverage.”
“Lark is thirteen.”
“I understand that.”
“Do you?”
Mara ignored the question and approached the bed.
“What have the doctors said?”
Clay explained.
She listened with her arms folded.
“What was she doing on Pine Ridge Road?”
“I don’t know.”
He thought of Lark describing the overlook.
He thought of her saying she had seen Mara’s car.
For the first time in their marriage, Clay chose to hide information from his wife.
Days blurred.
Clay slept beside Lark’s bed. Mara visited for forty minutes in the morning or an hour late at night, always with another obligation waiting.
The doctors repeated imaging studies and neurological assessments. Some results were stable. Others were uncertain.
Dr. Harlan’s language became increasingly cautious.
“We are not seeing the progress we hoped for.”
“She moved her hand,” Clay said.
“Movement does not always indicate awareness.”
“You don’t know that it doesn’t.”
“No. I don’t.”