“But you’re curious.”
“I’m always curious. It doesn’t mean I act on it.”
“That sounds lonely,” he says, and there is no performance in it, no play. Just a clean, direct observation delivered without cruelty.
I stop walking.
He stops too, half a step ahead, and turns to look at me. His expression is different than it’s been all morning. The humor is still there but it’s further back, and what’s in the front is something genuine and a little careful.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I know you’re fine.” He holds my gaze. “That’s not what I said.”
The moment sits there. Longer than it should. I’m close enough to him that I can see the detail of his eyes, which are lighter than I’d registered, and close enough that his warmth reaches me. There’s a pull in my chest that is not oxygen deprivation and not adrenaline and not any of the things I’m used to feeling in situations with stakes.
I take the container back from him.
“How is the search for answers going?” I ask.
“I’ve got some leads.”
“Good.”
“I know you want to get out of here as soon as possible.” Is that disappointment in his expression? Why do I care?
“I should get back,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Don’t follow me this time.”
“I’m going the same direction.”
“Jack.”
He raises both hands in surrender. “Back to the game alley. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you really a Scout?”
“Briefly. I was asked to leave.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I shift the container. “Go fix the ring toss.”
He grins—the trouble grin, the one I recognized immediately because I have the same one—and peels off toward game alley without further negotiation, which is the most cooperative he’s been all morning. I watch him go for approximately two seconds before I redirect my feet toward the food stall.
The afternoon is warm, bordering on hot.
The carnival ground is busy with setup energy, all purposeful movement and overlapping noise. The smells are layered and rich, and there is something that happens to me when I step back into the orbit of the stall that Ihave no tactical language for.
I feel the pack bond the way you feel a change in weather. Not a word. Not a thought. Just a shift in the air that tells you something is different than it was.
I don’t have a pack. I’ve never had a pack. I grew up without one and I told myself, consistently and with great conviction, that I didn’t need one and didn’t want one and the whole concept was a biological legacy that modern people could opt out of if they chose.
I chose to opt out. Omega be damned.
I have chosen.
I am choosing, right now, actively, in real time.
