“Wanna talk” His simple two-word question cut right to the chase, and encompassed more than just concern for my well-being. It was Thom’s economical way of letting me know he didn’t miss anything inside the perimeter of his camp. He was like that, always using his words sparingly, like they could be banked for a rainy day.

It was only one of the million differences between him and Simon, the two camp leaders—that spare use of words of his.

“I’d rather not,” I answered. But I kinda liked that he’d come here to check on me. And I especially liked that there wasn’t the slightest trace of pity in Thom’s eyes—only concern. And there was a huge difference between the two.

Pity meant I was someone to feel sorry for.

Concern meant I mattered . . . that I was important.

“Fair enough. If you change your mind . . .”

I blinked against the unwanted sting of tears. I damn sure wasn’t about to cry just