But not like a weapon thrown by trembling hands into a room already on fire.
Not today.
CHAPTER 38
RHYX
The sky has gone bright and clean. Rainwater still clings to the scrub plants along the path, releasing that green mineral smell that only comes after a hard soak and sudden sun. The front steps are drying in patches. Somewhere nearby, a neighbor is using a power saw with more optimism than skill.
The air carries the scent of cut wood, sealant, old paint, and the faint citrus cleaner Selene insists on using because “if a place smells like institutional ventilation, I will set it on fire.” The small room at the back catches the afternoon light in broad honey-colored bands. Dust motes drift in it like slow golden static.
I set my tool case on the floor and go to work.
Child safety systems first.
Cabinet latches on the low storage bench. Reinforced corner guards on the frame near the kitchen threshold where a running child would absolutely crack a head otherwise. Socket covers in the main room. A second communication relay node installed in the wall near the bedroom in case the district net drops during weather or crowd surge. Emergency contact hardline tied tocivilian med response, not military anything. Backup battery for the relay. Window-lock calibration. Stair-edge grip strips.
Selene sits on the half-finished window bench in the main room reviewing residency papers while I work, occasionally glancing up to ask questions in the exact tone of someone who will absolutely cross-examine the emotional meaning of a cabinet hinge if left unsupervised.
“You know,” she says while I’m under the sink fitting a latch bracket, “most normal people decorate first.”
“Most normal people plan badly.”
“That is not a definition. That is an accusation.”
I tighten the bracket and slide back out. “You want shelves before safety rails.”
“I want paint that doesn’t look like a committee selected it under sedation.”
“That can be arranged after impact hazards are reduced.”
She narrows her eyes at me over the stack of documents. “You talk like a man who has met exactly one pregnant woman and then turned it into doctrine.”
“I am adapting.”
“You are nesting.”
“I am reinforcing.”
She points a page at me. “That is nesting with better verbs.”
I let that pass because she is, regrettably, correct.
The final communication redundancy takes longer than it should because neutral district infrastructure was built by people who believed access panels were a personal insult.
By the time I finish, my shoulders ache pleasantly and the house has shifted again from possible to actual. Not complete. Never that. But committed.
Selene sets the papers aside and watches me secure the relay cover.
“You’re happy,” she says.
I look over. “That sounds accusatory.”
“It is mostly observational.” She tips her head. “You get this look when you’re solving something with your hands instead of your guilt.”
I sit back on my heels. “That is rude.”
“It’s true.”
