The progress looked painful, and when she reached me she put out her hands, resting them, palms flat, against my chest, and I thought she would give me her weight, but she didn't. There was enough light to see her face, just barely, but not enough to read what was painted there when she looked at me. I couldn't feel her hands through the vest, but I imagined that they were warm.

"I have to go, Alena," I said.

"I don't know how to do this, Atticus," she said, and the frustration in her voice sounded more pained than angry. "I have never had to do this. I have never had to say good-bye to someone I did not want to see go."

I didn't say anything.

She moved her left hand, raised it as if to rest it against my cheek, but then dropped it back to my chest, as if afraid that the touch would burn her. Even in the darkness, I could see her scowling.

"I want to kiss you," Alena said, suddenly. "May I do that?"

"You can do that," I told her.

She moved her hands up my chest once again, this time lighter, splaying her fingers, as if reading me in Braille. When they reached my shoulders, she began to lean in, then balked, pulling back. She tilted her head to her right, tried a second approach, pulled back once again. Her head tilted to the left, and that seemed to make her feel more confident, and she held my shoulders more firmly, and this time I knew she would go through with it.

I met her mouth with my own, felt her lips tentative against mine, and there was only a light brushing of skin, dry and softer than I had thought her capable of being. Then she did it again, this time with certainty. Her fingers moved to my neck, then into my hair, and she pulled herself into me. I put my arms around her, tasting her and holding her, and she made a sound into my mouth, almost mournful.