In danger

I looked out the window. Outside, birds sang and flowers bloomed; the forest around the lake in spring looked like something out of a fairy tale, apart from Jason, who was hard at work hammering a ring of posts around the yard.

First, he took out a round post roughly ten centimeters in radius and a meter and a half tall, set it on the ground, and hammered it straight into the earth. Yes, that was right-he drove it in with brute force, forcing it about half a meter down and leaving about a meter of wooden post exposed.

These weren't meant to keep out wild animals that wandered in by mistake. With Jason around, those animals reacted to him as if they'd seen a ghost. They couldn't get away from him fast enough, never mind enter the yard. Even insects, whose brains were barely bigger than pinheads, had to take a detour around him.

If they weren't for keeping things out, what were they for? I understood. He was marking out the limits of my movements. Clearly, I was being penned in, with a row of posts I could easily jump over. I was very curious about just what sort of creature he saw me as.

But when it came down to it, everything he ate, used, and lived in was mine, so I should have been the one keeping him. That gave me a little psychological comfort.

To reward him for making me a pen.

For lunch, I made mushrooms baked with truffles and cheese, French onion soup with toasted cheese bread, and pan-seared filet mignon with black truffle mashed potatoes. With twenty minutes of roasting time left, I added chopped carrots, asparagus, bell peppers, and cherry tomatoes tossed with olive oil, salt, black pepper, and thyme. The drink was freshly pressed apple juice.

After lunch, Jason still sat beside the television, which was still showing colorful cartoons, but his attention definitely wasn't on them.

He pressed close against me, his arm draped over my shoulders. I leaned against the sofa, and he leaned against me, rubbing my clothes between two fingers of his other hand, presenting a picture of vulnerability and dependence.

I'd already gotten used to his personality and behavior, but thinking of him hammering posts out there that morning to make me a pen made me find it a little funny.

I couldn't be bothered to read anymore. Ever since some stray thought of mine-I didn't know which-had leaked out and let him hear me complaining that he was icy cold and rock-hard, his skin had returned to a normal color, his body temperature had risen until he felt a little warmer than me, and his muscles had softened, with a solid, substantial feel to them. All in all, he was actually quite comfortable to lean against.

But the cartoons obviously couldn't hold my interest either. A few days earlier, I'd tried testing Jason's limits. First, I did some small things that would just happen to catch his attention, such as adding double the salt or sugar to his portion of food, or dirtying the table he'd just cleaned.

But as I'd said before, he had a tolerance for me whose depths I couldn't gauge. He didn't take any of it to heart.

Fine, then. I escalated my provocations. I began discussing things with him. Although he didn't speak, I generally knew what he was thinking, so I mostly contradicted him.

Even when he grew anxious, there was nothing he could do. He wouldn't speak, only stare at me with those big blue eyes, looking rather aggrieved.

But he still indulged me. I felt that even if I asked to sit on his head and have him carry me around that way, he wouldn't have much objection.

So I began testing things I knew full well he wouldn't let me do. First came phone calls, in a very intimate tone. I could feel his agitation, but he didn't take any concrete action.

Second, I tried going out, but I hadn't expected the second thing to hit his sore spot.

This was no longer agitation, but anger. When I stepped roughly two meters beyond the yard, I instantly found myself on the bed. Before I could react, he had braced both hands on the edge of the bed and pressed his whole body over mine. Those eyes fixed on me as he said, enunciating every word:

No!

That was the first time he'd explicitly refused me. I could even feel that he was trying to frighten me. Jason had gotten a little meaner, but he couldn't bear to be mean to me. Although I knew perfectly well that he couldn't bring himself to do me any actual harm, I still felt genuine, visceral fear. A racial talent?

But how should I put it? His limits where I was concerned were practically nonexistent, but there was a condition: there was a leash around my neck. Though the leash was very long and very loose, it was still there.

Before, although he'd watched me closely and hadn't much liked me going out, it had ultimately still been up to me, and I'd occasionally gone out. Now, Jason wouldn't let me go out at all. He wouldn't even agree to let me go into the forest, though that was understandable. After all, in his mind, I'd "died" who knew how many times.

I'd gotten the results of my testing. Jason was still the same Jason, just a little smarter. As for the rest, I'd let things take their course.

Jason's carpentry had improved. With a saw, a hammer, and some nails, he'd actually managed to put together a shed in a few days, and it looked pretty good.

Inside were some of his tools and such, all neatly arranged. He'd gone out to chop firewood at the very start of autumn, then split those pieces of wood of varying lengths and widths into small strips and stacked them into a perfectly even wall. I suspected he might have some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I also realized something. Before, I hadn't understood why he insisted on doing certain household chores when he knew perfectly well he didn't have to. Now, I could vaguely imagine that this might have been the life he'd once envisioned, and he was now acting out the role he'd imagined for himself.

Someone who could shoulder responsibility within a family, someone who could shelter the people he protected from wind and rain.

To put it more simply, a father, a husband, a man. Someone who could protect himself and his mother, and someone who had always been absent from his life.

He probably liked that sort of occupation. I guessed that the person in question had been either a hunter or a repairman, someone Jason had been able to observe for a while during his childhood, or during the period shortly after his resurrection.

So I decided to make that apple pie with double the sugar tonight.

Time slipped quietly by, and autumn had already reached its midpoint. Just as I began to feel a little cold, without any prompting or even a mention from me, Jason lit the fire as the weather cooled. It was cozy, kept at just the right warm temperature twenty-four hours a day. As roommates went, he really was wonderful.

To reward him, I spent more than three hours working that afternoon on a home version of the signature menu from the best five-star hotel far away in New York. Dinner's starter was roasted figs with goat cheese and honey. The soup was a creamy pumpkin and chestnut soup. The main course was slow-seared duck breast with truffle oil. I also made pan-seared black pepper beef with pasta, asparagus baked in cream with Parmesan cheese, truffle and wild mushroom risotto, and apple pie with chopped hazelnuts. I poured myself a little red wine, too.

Looking at the table full of food that looked, smelled, and tasted wonderful, I wasn't doing badly as a roommate either.

After dinner, the two of us sat huddled together in front of the fireplace. The television was still playing, but its sound failed to draw either of its owners' attention. Perhaps because I'd had wine, I felt hot all over, warmed through by the fire. I held an iron skewer, idly roasting marshmallows to eat.

My thoughts wandered as I handed him one. Jason took the marshmallow in his hand, lifted his mask slightly, stuffed it into his mouth, then lowered his mask again. I handed him another, and he repeated the same actions, over and over.

Jason's body was now entirely that of an ordinary person. If you disregarded certain things, he was an ordinary person with peak physical abilities that went a little beyond the peak. I could even hear his heartbeat and feel his pulse. He'd even sweated a little before, but I'd vetoed that outright.

At first, Jason hadn't been very good at controlling his strength. He was always clinging to me, too, like a big dog that didn't know how to restrain itself, constantly causing its owner minor injuries. Later, he'd gradually learned to use less force.

I'd known for a long time that Jason's face seemed to have recovered. First of all, he'd grown hair, the shape of his skull had returned to normal, and I could meet both his eyes. I'd been curious before, too, but he'd refused without hesitation.

But now, with my head hot from the fire, his face tugged at my curiosity like a cat scratching at me. People always wanted to push their luck.

I rose to my knees. Sensing my gaze, he turned to look at me. I slowly reached out and hooked my fingers around the edge of his mask. He quickly realized what I intended. No. A crisp, plain, direct refusal.

It looked hopeless, but I wasn't discouraged. I moved closer to him and took her hand, rough, broad, and thick. I brought his hand to my face: my forehead, the bridge of my nose, my lips, my cheeks. He seemed a little dazed, not understanding what I was doing.

"Go on, feel it," I encouraged him.

Jason froze for a moment, seeming a little at a loss, but he still stroked my face. First, he slowly rubbed his fingers along my brow bone, then my nose, eyes, lips, and chin. Finally, he cupped my face in his warm, dry palm.

"All right," I announced, opening my eyes. "You touched my face, so in exchange, I get to touch yours."

Jason's eyes went round. The look in those blue eyes made me feel a little guilty. He seemed to think for a while, but ultimately let me have my way.

He covered my eyes with one hand. Rather than keep waiting for him to remove his mask, I felt around and took it off for him. First came his head. He had a large frame; I'd known that for a long time. His brown hair was a little stiff and prickly, perhaps because it wasn't long. Next came his forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth. I built an image in my mind: typically European bone structure, with rather full lips.

Where I couldn't see, the firelight from the fireplace licked at the side of his face-a perfectly ordinary face, but a very clean one, one that could even be called smooth. No hideous scars, no twisted bones.