--V--

I stared at the window.

Caleb stopped glaring, and closed his eyes. Then he opened them. His gaze rested on my face.

"How-" he said muttering, then shifted to a deep and irritated voice. "How on earth is that girl your best friend, Chris?"

"Nightingale," I said. I succeeded at saying the word. And then I couldn't look Caleb in the eye anymore.

"Hey," said Caleb.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I mean, I know it could've been worse- I mean, we lived. Kaylee and me. Everybody else..." I trailed off.

"Chris," said Caleb.

"...they're dead. They died." I felt the need to prove I could say it; I could speak the words without totally jumping away in one piece of air while doing a some form of somersault with a full twist and then crying for 24 hours wherever I landed. Perfect score, yay. "And they didn't die all at once, either," I said.

"Do you dream about it?" said Caleb.

"What?" I said.

"Do you dream about it," he repeated. "She does."

I stared at my shoes. There was something in my eyes again.

I wanted to tell Caleb what I dreamed about when I do sleep: reruns of past traumas. Including, but not limited to, Experiment Nightingale.

I also wanted to tell Caleb that sometimes when I woke up from them, I would think of him.

I thought of him, and it soothed my mind; it guided me back to the present. I thought of how he was basically the reason I had a job. How thankful I was that Kaylee had a brother like him, helping to keep her protected.

How Caleb and I always visited the Port together, at midnight.

I wanted to say these things; I wanted to express my deepest gratitude, express to him how much he meant to me.

Sadly, I didn't know how to do any of these things.

"I dream about it when I'm awake, yes," I said. "I don't sleep."

"Come on," said Caleb.

"I sleep a little," I said.

He smiled, and locked eyes with me.

"You know," he said. "I can change that."

"Thanks for the jacket, do you want it back?" I said, both subconsciously and automatically trying to look for a way out of the new subject at hand, as well as searching his eyes, in an attempt to read him, read where his heart was when he said those words. I was already removing the brown cotton jacket. It was always really easy to take off, too, because it was so huge on me.

He put his hand firmly on my arm, stopping me.

"It's yours," Caleb said, slowly. There was a slightly pleading tone in his voice when he said it. It melted some of my defenses. I still had thousands. "Keep it," he said. "Please."

The wind was warm; things weren't all frozen over, the way they usually were on most late Marches. Weather in the Overwoods: your number one source of unpredictability.

"Okay," I said. "I'll keep it."

"Thank you," said Caleb.

"You're welcome," I said.

We stood there, on the porch, silent for a while.

I rolled my eyes up to the shade above us. I sniffed. I cleared my throat, and said nothing.

He took my hand, and locked his fingers between mine. I think he did this whenever he felt he needed to drag me back into the present, or something. "You're stronger than you think you are," he said softly. "And you're not alone anymore."

Either he read my mind or my flashback moments were now obvious to him.

I still said nothing. I didn't know what to say. I stayed frozen for a moment longer, having to deal with Experiment Nightingale and other memories as well as my amazingly phenomenal awkwardness.

The truth is I didn't want to push anyone away or reject affection; I didn't want to act like I didn't need anything, or like I was this extremely independent and invulnerable and invincible teenager.

Because I wasn't.

Yet unfortunately I had been in maybe a few too many unpleasant situations. I felt like for me certain emotions were difficult, perhaps even dangerous. Malcolm and Kaylee had come close, Caleb on several occasions.

Caleb smiled. He didn't have any dimples, like me. What he did have was funny yellow stubble. I remember touching it once, in a moment when I just really wanted to. I hope he never asks me about it.

He pulled me inside the living room with him.

"You're still wearing my jacket," he said. "Even on a warm day."

I saw Scott waving hello to me from the kitchen. I smiled and waved back. He was affectionate and friendly and kind. It was always nice to see him.

"I like jackets," I said.