“Kid’s capable,” Jack corrects.
There’s weight in that. Pride and protectiveness.
“That’s good. It’s needed to survive this world,” I say simply.
Jack nods once. Then his gaze flicks back to me. “You moving all right?”
“Define all right?”
He studies me a second longer. “You’re compensating. Left side.”
“Yeah, well, everything hurts.”
“Still walking, though. That’s got to count for something,” Jacks says.
“Barely.”
He huffs. “You’ll be right.”
Something about how he says it—colloquial… easy and certain—settles solid in my chest. Not comfort. Just… fact.
I nod.
Sonny claps his hands once, loud and decisive, like he’s just solved something important. “Right,” he says. “Now that the Aussie convention is in full swing?—”
Jack groans immediately. “Don’t.”
“—I feel like we should get a drink.”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “There’s no alcohol.”
“Details.”
I shake my head, a smile tugging despite myself. “You’re insufferable. I can tell.”
“And yet beloved,” Sonny shoots back without missing a beat. He pushes off the crate and starts pacing like he’s about to launch into a proper pitch. “No, hear me out,” he continues, pointing between us like we’re a captive audience. “I have been working on this. Actively. For weeks.”
“That’s concerning,” I say.
“It should be,” Jack mutters.
Sonny ignores us both. “Decca and Molsi?—”
“—the canteen twins?” I cut in, amazed and relieved they’re still here.
“Yes,” Sonny says, pleased I’m following. “Them. I’ve been getting them to experiment.”
“With what?” Jack asks, suspicious.
“Fermentation.”
Jack stares at him. “You’re making prison hooch?”
“It is not prison hooch,” Sonny says, offended. “It isartisanal.”
I huff a laugh that immediately turns into a wince as my ribs remind me I am, in fact, still injured. “Fuck,” I mutter, pressing a hand lightly to my side.
Sonny’s expression flickers—amusement fading just enough to check I’m all right—but I wave him off.
