Pending review.
I stare at the screen until confirmation hits.
APPLICATION RECEIVED.
A laugh breaks out of me, helpless and sharp.
There it is. My brilliant plan. Win a galaxy-famous competition full of lethal nonsense, collect the purse, pay off a crime boss, and continue pretending this counts as personal growth.
I glance at the curtains on my floor.
“Not today,” I tell them.
Then I grab a trash bag, a toolkit, and the first of my panic, and start getting ready for war.
CHAPTER 3
TILDA
By the time I get back to my apartment, I have signed away the next several weeks of my life, agreed to hurl my body into a televised corporate nightmare, and developed a new respect for the phrasewhat fresh hell is this.
The corridor outside my unit smells like overheated wiring and somebody frying onions two floors too enthusiastically. I stand there for a second with my hand on the door panel, forehead leaning against the dented metal, and let myself have exactly one private moment of panic.
Then I straighten up and go inside, because Jesse still needs dinner and bedtime and a mother who does not look like she’s about to be sick into the sink.
The apartment is dim except for the lamp by the couch. Fenn is sitting in my surviving chair like a weathered statue with a mug balanced on one knee, while Jesse sprawls on the floor in front of him surrounded by blocks, three toy animals, and the dismembered remains of a puzzle that had the nerve to oppose him.
Fenn glances up as I come in. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”
He snorts.
Jesse turns, sees me, and lights up so suddenly it’s like somebody threw open a window inside my ribs.
“Mama!”
He launches to his feet and barrels into my legs hard enough to make me rock back.
“Hey, bug.” I drop my bag and scoop him up. He smells like warm skin, dust, and whatever snack Fenn gave him. “Did you terrorize Mr. Fenn all day?”
“No terrorize,” Jesse says with great dignity. “Built.”
Fenn lifts a brow. “He did build. Mostly towers. Then he destroyed them with what I can only describe as artistic conviction.”
“That sounds right.”
Jesse pats my cheeks with both hands, studying me. “Mama sad?”
And there it is. The lethal precision of toddlers. You can lie to adults all day if you keep your shoulders square, but a child takes one look at your face and walks straight into the room where you keep the truth.
“I’m tired,” I say.
He considers that. “Sad-tired.”
I kiss his forehead because if I try to answer, I’m liable to make a humiliating sound. “A little.”
Fenn sets his mug down. His voice is casual, but not really. “What happened?”
