Page 193 of The Exit Strategy

What the hell is Hudson doing that he burned himself that many times?

Fen is on the floor with paint covering every available surface—his forearms, the back of one hand, a streak acrosshis cheekbone, the entire knee of his pants. He’s holding up three different swatches against a tiny piece of wood. And he’s muttering. In French.

Fenway Jones does not speak French.

Nolan’s in the back of the garage with dirt up to his elbows, a smear across his forehead, and what is unmistakably a small green sprig of holly caught in the collar of his shirt. He’s holding a tray of something miniature. Model trees, maybe? Shrubs the size of a thimble? And he’s planting them onto a small foam square with the focus of a surgeon. There are freaking leaves in his hair!

My brother—the doctor who took great pride in “scrubbing in” all throughout his residency—has leaves in his hair.

They’re all so busy that none of them notice me. Not even when Stanley and Hud have a tug-of-war with a pile of scrap wood that Stanley wrestles free before fleeing the garage with it.

Why would Hudson willingly wreck his hands? Or Fenway? He thrives on his public perception, yet here he is, covered in freaking paint.

And the only other time I’ve seen my brother get dirty like this was when they tried to build me a she-shed in our backyard so I would have somewhere quiet and private to go to study.

“Jesus Christ.” Hudson sees me first.

He drops the hot glue gun, which somehow doesn’t start a fire. Fen looks up, and his paint deck slides out of his hands. Nolan, who usually has the most situational awareness of anyone, sees me last, and only because everyone is now staring at me.

“Junie,” Hudson says. He’s panicking. Hudson does not panic.

“Ah, you’re bleeding.” I point to his forearm.

“I’m aware.”

“Why is there a leaf in Nolan’s hair?”

“Landscape design,” Fen says. “He’s making the entire foliage from scratch because we broke the 3D printer. He’s been at it since dawn, so go easy on him. The landscaping is a…complication.”

“Why is your face purple?” I can’t seem to take everything in. There’s just too much to look at.

“Two coats,” Fen says. “Provence Lavender. It’s for the front door, and I will not apologize for the choice.”

“Why is Hudson wearing reading glasses? In public.”

Hudson finds his aging eyes a weakness he can’t wrestle into submission.

“He’s refused to admit that he’s been prematurely presbyopic for three years,” Nolan says, finally putting down his tray. “Today, the doll furniture won.”

I stare at all three of them as if I’m meeting them for the first time. They look haggard—as though they went up against a tornado and the tornado saidhold my fucking beer.

There’s movement to my left, and when I turn, Cole steps out from behind the larger of the two long tables.

He’s holding a graphite pencil, there’s a smudge of charcoal on his temple, and he has dark circles under his eyes.

My heart hurts a little at the sight of him.

This isn’t the version of Cole who’s hiding something but the Cole who’s working with his hands because his mind can’t calculate next steps yet. And he let all his brothers in to help him.

“Hey, Junie.” He’s subdued, reserved. I don’t like it at all.

“Hi.” My hand lifts to an awkward wave that’s so reminiscent of when I first showed up here that I want to slap myself.

“I…” Cole drags out the syllable, like a man choosing each word as he watches for landmines. “Can I show you something? I mean, if you’ll come with me. It’s…” He glances at my brother, who not-so-casually shoos him on. “It’s not finished yet. But it’s far enough along that I can show you, and I’d rather show you imperfect than wait until I have it polished and pretend I had it under control all along. I—don’t. But I’m learning as I go.”

“Where?” I ask as Hudson drags Fenway through the open door.

“Papa’s fishing hole,” Cole says.