"I'm not hungry."
"I know. But you need to eat anyway."
He walked to a small kitchenette—a microwave, a mini-fridge, a coffee maker—and pulled out a container of something that steamed when he opened it.
"Soup. Chicken. It's easy on the stomach."
"I don't—"
"You don't have to eat all of it. Just a few spoonfuls. Enough to keep your body from shutting down."
He set the bowl on the table beside the couch. A spoon. A napkin. A glass of water.
"I'll be out front if you need me. Take your time."
He walked toward the door.
"Wait."
He stopped.
"Why aren't you calling the police?"
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
"I've been around long enough to recognize trauma when I see it. You're not a criminal. You're someone who's been through something terrible, and you're trying to survive."
"You don't know that."
"I know that you're sitting in my back room with dried blood on your hands, and you didn't try to hurt me. You didn't try to steal anything. You just... collapsed."
"I killed someone."
The words came out before I could stop them. Flat. Empty. The words of someone who'd stopped feeling anything a long time ago.
He didn't flinch.
"Maybe you did. Maybe you didn't. I'm not a judge. I'm not a cop. I'm just a guy who owns a bar and doesn't ask too many questions."
"Why?"
"Because I've seen what happens to people who ask too many questions. Because I've been in places where the only thing keeping you alive is someone else's silence."
He walked out, and the door closed behind him, and I was alone.
The soup was warm.
I ate a few spoonfuls. Then a few more. My stomach complained, but I kept going, because Matt was right—my bodyneeded fuel, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd given it anything that wasn't coffee or desperation.
The blanket was soft.
I pulled it tighter around my shoulders. The fabric smelled like lavender, or maybe just soap, or maybe something else entirely. It was warm. It was safe. It was the first time I'd felt either in weeks.
Rue.
Her face.
Her eyes, closed.
