Theo and Yarrow shared a look.

“Who was he?” Zander demanded.

Yarrow sighed. “Her husband.”

Once, he was dancing.

Fluorescent lights reflected blindingly on the ugly tile floor, blinking and buzzing almost imperceptibly against the music in the nursing home’s recreation room.

He’d come here once a week to volunteer since his wife died. It gave him something to do, and in the faces of each resident he saw something that reminded him of her. It was painful, like scratching open an old wound just to see it bleed again, but he found a strange sense of relief in seeing the same confusion and vulnerability echoed on a stranger’s face that he once saw on hers.

Alzheimer’s was a nasty sonofabitch. It stole her from him, allowing him only glimpses of her vitality toward the end as she struggled to find lucidity. But as she passed from this world to the next, she smiled at him in a knowing way, as if her spirit resurfaced just for a moment in order to say goodbye.

He kept coming here to visit the patients who had no spouse or children to sit by their side each day. It hurt, but also soothed, to know he could provide some sort of comfort.

Today was a special resident event. A dance. It wasn’t his usual day to visit, but one of the nurses approached him weeks ago and begged him to come.

“We don’t get many older gentleman volunteers,” she’d said. “Having you there would give all the ladies a chance to dance with a partner.”

So of course, he came. He thought of his Hannah, and how she’d love something like this even if she didn’t know the man she was dancing with was her husband.

He was just finishing a dance with Margaret, a little woman who always called him Dave even though that wasn’t his name, when the activities coordinator took over the mic to make an announcement. He helped Margaret back to her seat, patting her hand affectionately when she thanked him for the dance.

That was when she caught his eye.

She sat in the corner of the room, hunched over in her chair, her eyes out of focus as they gazed at the floor. Her white hair fell haphazardly over her face in a curtain that obscured one eye. Her fingers fiddled absently with an afghan on her lap. He’d never seen her before, but then again, he did most of his volunteering in the common areas of the nursing home, never visiting rooms unless the staff or a resident requested it.

He thought it was the memory of his wife who drew him to her. She declined rapidly at the end, and the empty look in this woman’s eyes was eerily similar to an image of his wife that haunted his dreams of late. But in truth, there was something else about the woman he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps he knew her once, long ago? After 84 years of living in the same town, it wouldn’t be surprising to run into someone he once knew here.

But as he approached her, he struggled to find anything familiar about her face. The draw to her came from the inside, as if his very soul tugged him toward her, recognizing something he couldn’t see.

Indeed, it did.

He knelt down in front of the woman and gently touched her hand. She didn’t respond.

“Hello,” he said. Nothing.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a nurse shaking her head. Her beehive hairdo trembled slightly as she shot him a sad look, like she knew he was wasting his time. Irritated with the look, he persisted, shifting his weight slightly so he was directly in the woman’s line of sight.

“Hello there,” he tried again, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.

Her eyes focused then, blinking several times as she took him in. He knew that look of dawning recognition. He’d seen it many times before. He was not, however, prepared for the smile that slowly lit up her features, like a candle melting in reverse. Every inch of her face lifted, brightened, like she was coming back from the dead.

Just then, the music started playing again. Tommy James’ voice warbled over the record, “Crimson and Clover” filling the room and igniting his body with a staggering sense of weight as the strange woman feebly squeezed his hand in response.

“There you are,” she said softly.

He smiled at her but didn’t know how to respond to that. “Would you like to dance?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice surprisingly steady.

As he helped her stand, he noticed how fragile her body was, as if she rarely moved on her own. He easily supported her weight as they moved to the edge of the dance floor and began to slowly sway to the music.

She kept her eyes on him as they danced. They darted around his face like she was learning his features. While he would normally feel uncomfortable under such scrutiny, he found himself surprisingly at ease, even when she leaned into his chest and inhaled deeply. A small sigh escaped the shriveled old woman, and she rested her cheek against him as they continued to sway.

Just as the song was ending, she pulled away to look at him again, the slow shuffle of her feet stopping abruptly.

She was a stark contrast from the huddled, withdrawn old woman he approached only minutes before. She stood up straight, her eyes clear and bright as they roved over him once more.

Her eyes met his with an intensity and longing that shocked him, and as her body softened, her hand brushing along his shoulder in a familiar way, he was filled with a sudden warmth. “Oh, how I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

And then she retreated within herself, her eyes clouding over and losing focus, her shoulders hunching slightly, her feet becoming unsteady.

As he braced her against him to prevent her from falling, he resisted the urge to shake her. A baffling desperation overcame him. He wanted her to come back. He couldn’t explain why, but he needed her to come back.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his spiral. It was the nurse from before. She moved her arm around the woman’s waist to support her, then smiled up at him, her eyes full of tears.

“I’ve never seen her so alert,” she said gently. “You’ve given her a gift today. I’ll take it from here.”

He stood there, his arms limp at his sides, and watched helplessly as she took his soulmate away.

11

“Her husband?”

Yarrow sighed again, moving to sit beside Theo, who was peeling his empty gun vest from his body. They lowered themselves painstakingly to the ground and gave Zander a hard look.

“Who is Ace to you?” they asked.

Zander looked between Theo and Yarrow in disbelief, his jaw hanging open.

“What the fuck do you mean who is Ace to me?” It was a ludicrous question, like asking his left foot who his right foot was to it. “What is going on, Yarrow?”

Yarrow’s expression didn’t waver. “Ace trusted us, and only us, with what I’m about to tell you. My gut says she would have told you eventually, and she would likely want you to know now. But I need to be sure you’re going to stick around after I tell you. If not, I’d much rather drop you off at the nearest port and do this ourselves.”

Zander recoiled at the idea, an unfamiliar rage kindling in his belly at the thought of being left behind—of leaving Ace behind.

“You want to know who Ace is to me?” he asked. “She’s the only thing that’s ever felt real in my life. She’s my heart, my lungs, the sun on my face. I’d pluck my eyes from my head and give them to her if she asked. I’d cut the beating heart from my own mother if she needed it. She's my soulmate. Now please, Yarrow, tell me what’s happening.” His voice felt ragged, breaking under the threat of furious tears.

Yarrow’s face softened, and they took Zander’s hands in theirs, giving them a squeeze.

“I suspected as much,” they said softly. “But I needed to know for sure.”

Yarrow looked at Theo, who was leaning against a damaged railing, one arm resting casually on his raised knee. He looked comically like himself—charming, relaxed, poised—a tender smile on his face at Zander’s confession. His posture lay in stark contrast to the blood, gunpowder, and saltwater coating his skin and clothes. If Zander wasn’t overwhelmed by heartbreak, he might have laughed.