Kate Freelander

Light flickers off the flatscreen monitor of Kate's media station where it sits on top of a stack of boards separated by coconut shells that they use for Lilo's dresser. From her spot on the bed, Kate can just make out the folding screen she'd made from a couple of crappy tourist-trash kimonos like they sell at the International Market in Waikiki and jungle-trash branches she spent days soaking, warping, whittling straight. Lilo likes it, because she can 'slam' it across the space between her pallet and the bed and it feels like she has her own space. Kate likes it, because it feels like she did something right for once. Even if it's just giving an angry six year-old her own room and a door to slam.

Right now, Bonny's curled up in her corner on her pallet. Lilo's on her stomach, chin on her hands, watching Elvis and Ann Margaret prance around a pool party in Viva Las Vegas. There weren't a lot of Elvis movies on her media station when she got it. Just a few, but there are enough that Kate's pretty sure the guy never wore short sleeves. Ever. And not enough that she doesn't know this one by heart, which is why she's making up stories about tragic fires, shooting up, angry hookers, never-revealed deformities, Abnormalities, when she sneaks a kiss to Phoebe's shoulder and her fingers pick idly at the hem of Phoebe's dress.

It's not a thing, like her and Declan. More of a thing like her and Imri. They like being together. It's comfortable. She trusts Phoebe with Lilo. And they're both cool with the booty call list being longer than one. Tonight, it feels a little more like a thing but Kate knows it's because she's struggling to stay awake, even with Lilo half-wrapped around her leg and Bonny's occasional barked commentary on the movie. She's had to dial back her training, but she's got lifeguarding and first aid and sewing and cooking and training and sparring and laundry and the chick-a-dees and William and Lilo. Even with all that, sleeping around someone else who's awake is kind of huge. It says things. But either Kate's grown or she's just really tired because she knows what things and she honestly doesn't care.

Bonny's whining. A low, hurt sound and something in it has Kate's heart pounding before she's even fully awake. Before she realizes that Bonny shouldn't be here, in her hut turned house in the new Wild West. The cobwebs haven't cleared from her thoughts when Kate rolls to her feet and reaches for the Bowie under her pillow.

She slips on her boots (at the end of the bed, tops up, safer from scorpions and snakes) then pats the bed. Bonny jumps up, licks Kate's hand and whines again. In the dark, Kate runs hands over her while her eyes adjust. Nothing sticky, nothing hot or swollen, no flinches. The whine's not her pain.

Declan.

Even in wood-soled boots on hardwood floor, Kate's quiet getting out of bed. Much quieter than the throb in her ears or even the rising bile in her throat, which shouldn't be loud but is. It's loud and telling. Bonny's here and she shouldn't be. Kate knows the reason already, but she won't think it. It doesn't have to be true.

There's no one in her house. The door, ajar already from the puppy coming in, gets opened slowly, the pistol she took from her nightstand raised against anyone standing outside, and there's no one on the porch either.

"Sssst," she hiss-whistles at the puppy. "Come on, girl. Where is he? Show me." Bonny comes down off the bed and belly-crawls to Kate's side and that thought she's not thinking, the lie she's telling herself rises again. "Come on, girl. I can't help him if you don't help me find him."

The dog doesn't move. Just lays her head over Kate's feet.

She's not going to cry. She's not fucking going to cry. She's going to find Declan, tell him she loves him, explain why she's been spending more time alone lately, they're going to fix it, and it's going to be fine. "Bonny, heel," she snaps and the dog heels. Miracle of fucking miracles.

But three hours later - one trek to Declan's hut, one trek by Will and Magnus's, one trek to the Compound to her mailbox and the kitchen - still dressed in his belted sleep shirt and a pair of long underwear and boots - Declan's not found. Not a note. Not a word. Not a drop of blood. Not a sign of slightly graying hair and broad shoulders anywhere.

He's gone. Not missing, not hunting, not even mapping the new territory. Just gone.

Kate sits down on the steps of what used to be her hut, wraps her arms around the damned puppy and cries.