He keeps his gaze level with mine, unblinking, like I didn’t say a word. Then, with great precision of movement, he peels off his leather work gloves, finger by finger, and shrugs off his jacket. He walks over to where I stand in the Airstream doorway with exaggerated slowness as if I might attack or bolt. Where would I run? I’m stuck in a trailer, and the frames are so rusted and warped, none of the windows open all the way anymore.

Preston holds out his jacket. “You’re cold.”

I lift my chin. “I don’t want it.”

“Take it. Please.” I hate his voice. It’s an octave lower, so deep...