Nine percent, the world is pitch black, and I hate myself. There’s no alternative. I have successfully defended a Ph.D. dissertation, overcome a depressive episode, gotten my chuncha fully waxed every month for years, and yet tapping once on Levi’s number feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe I should just settle in for the night. Maybe a pack of bobcats will let me snuggle in their pile. Maybe—

“Yes?”

Oh, shit. He answered. Why did he answer? He’s a millennial; we also hate talking on the— “Hello?”

“Um, sorry. This is Bee. Königswasser. We, um, work together? At NASA?”

A pause. “I know who you are, Bee.”

“Right. Yes. So . . .” I close my eyes. “I am having a bit of a problem and I was wondering if you could—”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Where are you?”

“See, I’m in this little cemetery by the Space Center.

Greenwood?”

“Greenforest. Are you locked in?”

“I— How do you know?”

“You’re calling me from a cemetery after sundown. Cemeteries close at sundown.”

That would have been a useful piece of information fortyfive minutes ago. “Yeah, so . . . the walls are sort of tall, and my phone is sort of dying, and I’m sort of—”

“Go stand by the gates. Turn off the flashlight if you have it on. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” A beat. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry, okay?”

He hangs up before I can tell him to bring a ladder. And, come to think of it, before I can ask him to come rescue me.

9

MEDIAL FRONTAL CORTEX: MAYBE I WAS WRONG?

THE SECOND LEVI appears I want to kiss him for rescuing me from the mosquitos, and the ghosts, and the ghosts of the mosquitos. I also want to kill him for witnessing the extent of the humiliation of Bee Königswasser, human disaster. What can I say? I contain multitudes.

He steps out of an oil-guzzling truck that I sadly have no right to complain about anymore, surveys the wall, and comes to stand on the other side of the gate. To his credit, if he’s smirking he’s doing it on the inside. His expression is neutral when he asks, “You okay?”

Does thoroughly mortified count as okay? Let’s say: “Yeah.”

“Good. This is what we’re going to do: I’ll slide in the ladder through the gates, and you’ll use it to get on top of

the wall. I’ll be on the other side to catch you.”

I frown. He sounds very . . . in charge. Self-assured. Not that he usually doesn’t, but it’s having a new . . . effect on me. Oh my God. Am I a damsel in distress?

“How will we retrieve the ladder?”

“I’ll drive by tomorrow morning and pick it up.”

“What if someone steals it?”

“I’ll have lost a precious heirloom passed down my family for generations.”

“Really?”

“No. Ready?”

I’m not, but it doesn’t matter. He lifts the ladder like it’s a feather and slides it through the gate. It feels a little lessthan-cool when I find that it’s so heavy, I can barely hold it upright. I tell myself that I have other talents as he has to patiently guide me through the process of releasing the catches and setting the safety mechanism. He must notice how annoying I find being coached, because he says, “At least you know about the angular gyrus.”

I turn to hiss at him, but stop when I see his expression. Is he teasing me again? For the second time? In a day?

Whatever. I climb up, which proves to be a nice distraction. Because you know how I mentioned that my body likes to faint? Well. Heights make it like to faint even

more. I’m halfway to the top, and my head starts spinning. I clutch the sidebars and take a deep breath. I can do this. I can maintain normal blood pressure without passing out.

I’m not even that high up. Here, if I look down I can— “Don’t,” Levi orders.

I turn to him. I’m a few inches taller, and he looks even more handsome from this angle. God, I hate him. And myself. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look down. It’ll be worse.”

How does he even know that—

“Look up. Take one step after the other, slowly. Yes, good.” I don’t know if his advice works, or if my blood pressure naturally spikes when I’m told what to do, but I make it to the top without crumpling like a sack of potatoes.

At which point I realize that the worst is yet ahead. “Just lower yourself from the edge,” Levi says. He’s standing right below me, arms raised to catch me, his head a few inches from my dangling feet.

“Jesus.” Forget fainting. I’m about to barf. “What if you don’t catch me?

What if I’m too heavy? What if we both

fall? What if I break your neck?”

“I will, you’re obviously not, we won’t, and you won’t. Come on, Bee,”

he says patiently. “Just close your eyes.”

See? This is what you get yourself into when you work out. Stay in the safe harbor of your couch, kids.

“You ready?” he asks encouragingly. Trust falls. With Levi Wardass. God, when did this become my life? Dr. Curie, please watch out for me.

I let myself go. For a second I’m suspended in air, sure that I’ll splatter Humpty-Dumpty style. Then strong fingers close around my waist, and I’m in Levi’s arms for the second time in ten days. I must have pushed from the wall a little too forcefully, because we end up closer than I intended. My front rubs against him as he lowers me to the ground, and I feel everything.

Everything. The hard muscles of his shoulders under my hands. The heat of his flesh through the shirt. The way his belt bites into my abdomen. The dangerous tingling in my lower belly as he— What? No.

I step back. This is Levi Ward. A married man. A father. A camel dick.