“You’re not handling things well.”
It’s not a question.
“Something happen?”
The way he says it makes something shift in the back of my mind, something that’s been there before, something I’ve ignored because I didn’t have the space to care about it.
He always knows more than he should. It flickers.
Then the image of her pushes forward again and drowns it out.
I hold his gaze anyway.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
It comes out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t react.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t smile.
“No one you need to worry about,” he says.
That answer does nothing.
If anything, it makes the feeling worse.
But I don’t push it.
I don’t have anything left to push with.
He hands me the pills.
“Things are gonna get tight,” he says. “Real tight.”
My hand closes around them automatically.
“What does that mean?”
He leans back slightly.
“Streets are getting quiet,” he says. “People aren’t moving like they usually do.”
A pause.
“Something’s building.”
War.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. The window rolls up. The car pulls away.
I stand there for a second, watching it go, that same uneasy feeling sitting just under everything else.
He knows something.
Or at least, he knows enough to say it like that.
