Dreams for the Dead by Heather Crews

glasses on the nightstand. The digital clock by the bed said it was seven a.m.
    Tristan was already awake, if he’d ever gone to sleep. Dawn remembered the click of the lock last night and opening her eyes to see him briefly backlit by the sickly green luminescence pouring in from the open door. Then the door shut and his shadowed form silently approached her. With gentle fingers he’d undone the knots. He’d massaged her aching wrists lightly for a moment, and then he’d settled on the other bed without a word. She’d rolled onto her side, taken off her glasses, and watched his blurred shadow until she fell asleep.
    From where she lay now she could see him standing shirtless in front of the bathroom sink, his back to her. Her eyes slid over the length of his smooth, long muscles. His shoulders and torso were broad but he was lean, bony in some places. His pale skin looked cool and softly solid. She felt the urge to touch it.
    He turned and she sat up, quickly averting her eyes. “Are you hungry?” His words were sharp, as if he were angry with himself for bothering to ask.
    “Yes.”
    “We’ll get breakfast. And then we’ll leave.”
    “Are we going back home?” she asked.
    “No. Not yet. And you …” He looked at her, his eyes almost rueful. “You’re never going back home. It’s better not to hope.”
    She showered quickly, feeling bleak. They checked out and then walked down to a diner, where they took a table by the window. It was still drizzling. Dawn asked for French toast and they both ordered coffee. She studied Tristan across the table. Her mouth felt dry whenever she thought of his hands on her wrists, his body leaning over her in the dark.
    Settling back, Dawn rubbed her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. She glanced out the window. She thought she was beginning to feel safe for real, and not just because she’d successfully removed herself from her emotions. Tristan didn’t seem inclined to hurt her, despite his threats. Maybe there was even something secretly vulnerable in him. Something that she alone could reach, and heal.
    Or so she imagined.
    And thinking that way was dangerous.
    When she’d finished eating they walked outside. The clouds had fallen away to reveal a clean, brilliant sky. The pavement was still wet and the air smelled of rain.
    Dawn noticed a thrift store behind the diner just as Tristan urged her toward it. “I need music,” he said irritably, and she had to agree. The radio signal had been in and out, and the stations had gotten progre ssively worse the further they drove.
    The store was filled with vintage clothing Leila would have loved. There was also milk glass and Bakelite, which Dawn loved. She couldn’t stop to look at the things that interested her since Tri stan was dragging her past it all. She needed a book.
    Tristan found a display with CDs, tapes, and records. Dawn’s eyes grazed past them in disinte rest. She’d been born too late to feel nostalgic about records, and she owned more music files on her laptop than actual CDs.
    “This is crap,” he muttered after a second. “I guess this one’ll do for now.”
    Dawn glanced at the CD in his hands. Talking Heads, which she’d never heard of. “Does your car even have a CD player?” she said, allowing a touch of snark to creep into her voice.
    “Yes. I installed it myself. After I removed the eight-track.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind.”
    “Well, good for you,” Dawn said, flustered. “I want to get a book. I mean, if you’re going to leave me tied up in motel rooms all the time, I could use some diversion.”
    He shrugged. “Fine. Make it fast.”
    She wanted to tell him book shopping was usually anything but fast, but she refrained and turned her attention to a tall shelf crammed with paperbacks and old clothbound books. Although normally she would have at least made an attempt at considering each individual one, today the titles swam without meaning before her eyes. Aware of Tristan