Tom bumps his shoulder against mine. “Stay with me. I’ll handle this.”
I nod, but it’s automatic. Empty.
My body forgets the headache, the nausea. Everything dulls except the part of me that knows how to survive.
Assess. Position. Exit.
There’s no exit.
The line begins to move.
Every few seconds, Tom glances back to check on me.
Weeks ago, he arrived here barely holding himself together. Now he’s the one watching over me.
It should comfort me.
Instead, it leaves me exposed.
Because I’ve always handled this alone. Always braced for impact without anyone noticing when I fell apart behind closed doors.
Tom notices, making it so much harder.
He steps out of line to get a better look, then turns back.
“They’re handing out cups. Stay calm. Promise me, love.”
Before I can answer, a guard shoves him back into line.
“No talking.”
Tom lifts his hands in mock surrender, like his last name isn’t McKenna.
The line advances, and within minutes we’re at the counter.
Tom takes his cup first. He plants himself in front of the line, arms crossed, grinning.
“Move on,” a guard snaps.
What the hell is he doing?
My turn.
I hand over my ID. The officer slides a cup toward me. My name is printed in capital letters, beneath it, my employee number and a barcode.
My pulse spikes.
This is it.
I’m done.
“Don’t block the line,” the guard warns. Tom stays at my side anyway.
“I’m not doing this. Do you even know who I am?”
“We don’t care. Keep moving.”
Tom doesn’t.
