It doesn't take long to figure out when it happens. For two months, Elvis has gone to sleep beside Anabelle, the two of them curled up together, tucked away from the rest of the island in their hut on the isolated stretch of north beach, sunflowers just outside their window. It's like he imagines it would have been at home, based on what she told
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Peering out, her brow furrows and she steps back. She doesn't get a whole lot of visitors - Claire's much more social than she is - and though she's spent time with Elvis since he arrived, he's certainly not who she expects to see.
"Elvis," she says, "hi. Do you wanna come in?"
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"Yeah," he manages, trying to seem grateful, not quite pulling it off. He is appreciative, incredibly so, of the fact that she's here, that he has someone to go to at all, but it's hard to focus on that in the face of something like this. "Thanks."
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"In here," she says. "Have a seat. What's going on?" There's no point beating around the bush either. If he's come to her because something's gone wrong, then her first aim is to do whatever she can to help with that, not help him put off saying something.
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