I looked at the walls of books surrounding her. Medieval warfare. Political dynasties. Church history.
“You did,” I said.
Her mouth twitched.
I moved forward before Olivero could decide to intervene again and took the seat across from her. The scrape of the chair against the floor seemed louder than usual, but she had already gone back to underlining something in one of her books, as if I were no more than a passing inconvenience.
That, more than anything, caught my attention.
Most people reacted to me in one of two ways. They either stared too long or worked too hard not to. She did neither.
For several minutes, the only sounds between us were the faint rustle of pages and the scratch of her pen. I told myself to focus on my own work. I opened my laptop, pulled one of my casebooks closer, and tried to ignore the bright pink headband currently offending my sense of order from across the table.
A while later, I got up to retrieve another book from the reference shelves. I found the title I needed halfway along the history section, wedged between two larger volumes. Irritation flickered when I realized someone had put the older edition back in the wrong place.
Of course.
I shifted the books in my arm and reached for the spine.
“The revised edition’s on the lower shelf.”
I looked to my left.
She was still seated at the table, not even facing me fully, as if she had offered the information without thinking much of it.
My brows lifted.
She finally glanced over. “That one was withdrawn last semester. If you want the updated maps, it’s the blue one underneath.”
I looked down at the lower shelf and grimaced.
Bending was always a calculation. Angle. Balance. Weight. Usually I managed it cleanly enough that nobody noticed.
Usually.
I shifted my cane, reached down, and my footing slipped just enough to send heat up the back of my neck.
Before I could correct it, a hand reached past me and closed around the spine of the book.
Shame hit first. Hot, immediate, and sickeningly familiar.
Then anger, because anger was easier.
“I didn’t ask for help. Keep your pity for someone else.”
She held the book out but did not step closer. Did not soften. Did not look at me the way people looked at something cracked.
“I don’t do pity,” she said.
I stared at her.
She nodded toward the top shelf behind me. “But I do believe in fair trade.”
“What?”
“You’re tall,” she said, as if her aim was obvious. “What are you, six foot something?”
“Six-two,” I said, more confused than I wanted to be.
