Between Sisters by Kristin Hannah

crept into a thicket of pine trees behind the lodge. The shade felt good. He eased deep into the woods until he couldn't be seen; then he sat down with his back rested against a pine tree. His head pounded at the movement, small as it was, and he closed his eyes.
    He was awakened hours later by the sound of laughter. There were several children running through the campsites, shrieking. The smell of smoke—campfires—was heavy in the air.
    Dinnertime.
    He blinked awake, surprised that he'd slept so long. He waited until the sun set and the campground was quiet, then he got to his feet. Holding his backpack close, he crept cautiously toward the log structure that housed the campground's rest room and laundry facilities.
    He was reaching out to punch in the code when a woman appeared beside him. Just . . . appeared.
    He froze, turning slowly.
    She stood there, wearing a bright blue bathing suit top and a pair of cutoff shorts, holding a stack of pink towels. Her sandy blond hair was a mass of drying curls. She'd been laughing as she approached the bathrooms, but when she saw him her smile faded.
    Damn.
He'd been close to a hot shower—his first in weeks. Now, any minute, this beautiful woman would scream for the manager.
    Very softly, she said, “The code is twenty-one hundred. Here.” She handed him a towel, then went into the women's bathroom and closed the door.
    It took him a moment to move, that was how deeply her kindness had affected him. Finally, holding the towel close, he punched in the code and hurried into the men's bathroom. It was empty.
    He took a long, hot shower, then dressed in the cleanest clothes he had, and washed his dirty clothes in the sink. As he brushed his teeth, he stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was too long and shaggy, and he'd gone almost completely gray. He hadn't been able to shave this morning, so his sunken cheeks were shadowed by a thick stubble. The bags beneath his eyes were carry-on size. He was like a piece of fruit, slowly going bad from the inside out.
    He finger-combed the hair back from his face and turned away from the mirror. Really, it was better not to look. All it did was remind him of the old days, when he'd been young and vain, when he'd been careful to keep up appearances. Then, he'd thought a lot of unimportant things mattered.
    He went to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. There was no one nearby, so he slipped into the darkness.
    It was completely dark now. A full moon hung over the lake, casting a rippled glow across the waves and illuminating the cabins along the shore. Three of them were brightly lit from within. In one of them, he could see people moving around inside; it looked as if they were dancing. And suddenly, he wanted to be in that cabin, to be part of that circle of people who cared about one another.
    “You're losing it, Joe,” he said, wishing he could laugh about it the way he once would have. But there was a lump in his throat that made smiling impossible.
    He slipped into the cover of the trees and kept moving. As he passed behind one of the cabins, he heard music. “Stayin' Alive” by the Bee Gees. Then he heard the sound of childish laughter. “Dance with me, Daddy,” a little girl said loudly.
    He forced himself to keep moving. With each step taken, the sound of laughter diminished until, by the time he reached the edge of the woods, he had to strain to hear it at all. He found a soft bed of pine needles and sat down. Moonlight glowed around him, turning the world into a smear of blue-white and black.
    He unzipped his backpack and burrowed through the damp, wadded-up clothes, looking for the two items that mattered.
    Three years ago, when he'd first run away, he'd carried an expensive suitcase. He still remembered standing in his bedroom, packing for a trip without destination or duration, wondering what a man in exile would need. He'd packed khaki slacks and merino wool sweaters and even a black Joseph Abboud suit.
    By the