Because she’s not wrong.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand across the back of my neck as I look away for a second, the tension pulling tight through my shoulders.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I say, quieter now.
She lets out a short breath, something almost like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“Funny,” she says. “I was thinking the same about you.”
“That’s not a joke.”
“Neither was that.”
I look back at her, really look this time, taking in the set of her jaw, the way her hands have curled slightly at her sides, the way she’s holding everything in place instead of letting it show.
“You don’t walk away from things,” I say.
“Neither do you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” she demands.
I hesitate, then shake my head slightly.
“Because I know when something’s bigger than me,” I say.
“And I don’t?” she shoots back.
“I think you don’t care,” I reply.
Her eyes flash.
“That’s not even close,” she says.
“Then what is it?” I ask. “Because this—” I gesture toward the fence, the line, everything beyond it—“this isn’t just about him anymore.”
Her expression tightens, something raw flickering there before she locks it down again.
“It never was,” she says.
“Then why are you pushing this hard?” I press.
“Because they killed him,” she snaps, the words sharper now, cutting through everything else. “And they think they can write it off like it didn’t matter.”
“That’s not new,” I say.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable,” she fires back.
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
Silence settles between us again, heavier this time, carrying everything we’re not saying out loud.
“You think I don’t see the risk?” she says finally, her voice quieter but no less intense. “You think I don’t know what happens if this gets out of control?”
“I think you don’t care if it does,” I reply.
She takes a step closer, the space between us tightening.
