Her gaze dropped to my hand, then rose again.
I stepped back.
"Sign-out," I said.
The word scraped on the way out.
For a second, she didn't move. Then she nodded. "Right. Hours."
"Hours," I said.
The hours sheet was the line, and wanting Daphne didn't change what I owed her.
She walked ahead of me to the shed.
I stayed behind her, which was a mistake for several reasons, all of them shaped like soft curves, dirt-streaked olive pants, and the stubborn set of her shoulders.
Inside the shed, the air was dim and hot. Dust floated in the slice of sunlight through the open door. Daphne set her gloves on the workbench and flexed her fingers.
I took down the clipboard.
"Four today?" she asked.
"Four."
"So I'm at eight total."
"Eight done. Twelve left."
She let out a slow breath. "That sounds better than sixteen."
"It is better than sixteen."
"Math and emotional support. The P-Patch really is full service."
I wrote the date, start time, end time, and hours. "Don't tell Birdie. She'll make a sign."
Daphne laughed softly.
I handed her the pen.
She leaned over the clipboard to initial. A strand of hair slipped forward against her cheek, and the dirt mark near her jaw stood out darker in the shed light.
"You've got dirt," I said.
She froze. "That's not specific enough to be helpful anymore."
"Cheek."
She lifted a hand toward the wrong side.
"Other side."
She swiped with the back of her wrist and made it worse.
I should've let her keep trying.
I didn't.
