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Then she calls again, and this time, I answer.

It’s early evening when I accept I have to wake Poet for real. I can’t live with him not eating any longer.

By then, the Rebel Kings have returned to make the barn safe, Dav has brought the chickens home, and the rain has eased to a light drizzle.

The Rebel Kings do not stay.

Dav does, for a while, at least, doing jobs around the farm so Poet doesn’t have to. And then he leaves without making me want to punch him again, and I am bemused enough about this to call Sol, who is less surprised than I am.

“He likes your fella. Everyone does. How’s he doing? You need anything?”

I tip bulviniai blynai onto a plate that already bears eggs, fried mushrooms, and greens from the poly-tunnel. “He is okay, just tired and sore. We know how that goes, yes?”

Sol makes a low sound. “Think I’d rather freeze than burn, but yeah, okay.”

“Do not remind me. Of either thing. Actually, could you do something for me?”

“Of course,” Sol readily agrees. “Anything you need.”

“Could you bring me some insulin from my house? I have enough until tomorrow, but I might use it faster than normal.”

Sol is well-versed enough in the realities of my life to not need any more information. He ends the call and I take Poet’s plate upstairs.

It is getting dark. The bedroom is in shadow and Poet cannot hear me coming. But he is already blinking awake as I cross the threshold and I know the moment our eyes meet that he is with me again.

But still, I tell him as I come to sit beside him on the bed. “I am here, Po. You are safe. Folk is okay and the farm is safe.”

“Folk?”

Poet’s voice is a bare rasp.

I hold a water glass to his lips. “Yes, he went to the burn clinic at the hospital and they X-rayed his chest. All is fine. He is fine, I promise, Po. I have checked more times than is polite.”

“Thank you.” Poet smiles and rubs my knee. “Speaking of polite. Why am I naked?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Please tell me I haven’t forgotten an epic fuck?”

“Definitely not. You fell asleep straight from the shower.”

He thinks a moment. Then he nods. “Is Aras okay?”

I nod too. Slowly.

Poet frowns. “What is it?”

“Aras was upset last night. He saw the barn fall in and the fire…he was very worried about you.”

“Did you tell him I’m fine?”

“No, because it is not true. I told him you were very tired, but you would be all right in a few days. The trouble is, we told him the same thing last winter and that was not true either. I was not okay for a long time and now he knows the things adults say are not always as accurate as we want them to be.”

Poet digests that. Then he smiles again. “You’re almost the best dad I’ve ever known.”

I don’t mind coming second place to Iggy Whitlock. But it reminds me of how I’ve spent my afternoon. “You need to eat.” I help Poet sit up and hand over the plate. “Then you must text your mother.”

“My mother—whoa, this looks good. What is it?”