Anders’s right knee bobbed up and down like a manic sewing machine needle. His right hand was balled up in a fist and bounced rhythmically off the top of his knee. Freida thought the combination looked like a bobbing, upside-down exclamation point. To Anders, the rustling in the trees was like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Freida, despite her own gnawing worry for Paign, was overcome with pity for Anders. She reached out and wrapped her slender, long fingers around Anders’s right hand. His leg immediately stopped moving, and his fist rested on his knee.
“It was three days ago…no, four. That’s right,” Anders said with difficulty, his voice strained.
“Yes, it was four days ago. We’d been arguing. You know, like the other times.”
“I was afraid of that,” Freida murmured. “About—”
“Yes!” Anders interrupted her, his eyes fiery. Then he shrugged, glanced briefly at Freida and muttered, “Sorry.”
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