Arin wiped his hands on his jeans and stood. “Depends,” he said. “If the cabin’s owner likes people, it’s probably taped somewhere obvious. If he hates people, it’s probably hidden inside a Bible.”
Her mouth lifted, just slightly. “That’s… depressingly accurate.”
Arin walked over to the fence. He gestured toward the side of her cabin. “Router’s usually by the kitchen window. Password might be on the sticker.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m Mara. Mara Castile.”
“Arin,” he said. “And this is Sana.”
Sana’s chin rose with the dignity of a small ambassador. “My volcano is broken, but it’s going to be the best one.”
Mara crouched to Sana’s height without hesitation, as if she’d done it a thousand times. “I believe you,” she said, and the sincerity in her voice did something strange to Arin’s chest. “What makes it the best?”
Sana launched into a fast explanation about baking soda and vinegar and “safety enhancements,” waving her hands as if she were conducting an orchestra. Mara listened like Sana was presenting at a conference, not babbling in the backyard.
And Arin realized something that made him quiet.
Most adults did the polite smile. The nod. The quick escape.
