Everything in his face tightens.
Not because he is angry. Because I came, because he needed me, because I spent money I did not have, because he hates all of that so intensely I can feel it from across the room.
I stand.
The officer beside him says, “He’s released pending review. If formal charges are filed, he’ll be notified.”
“Lucky me,” I say.
The officer gives me a tired look. “Keep him out of zoos.”
“I’ll put it on the calendar.”
Kauss does not smile.
We walk out of the precinct into the rain without speaking. The station doors slide shut behind us, cutting off the harsh light and stale cleanser smell. Outside, the city presses close in wet darkness. Patrol skiffs hum overhead. Puddles ripple under the hard rain. The precinct sign glows blue-white above the steps, turning Kauss’s scales briefly silver where water strikes them.
I open my umbrella.
It is immediately obvious the umbrella is useless for both of us. It barely covers me, and Kauss stands beside it like a building humoring a napkin.
He looks at it. “That is inadequate.”
“Thank you. I bought it on sale.”
“You should stand under the awning.”
“You should say thank you.”
His jaw flexes.
I wait.
Rain runs down his face. He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with the fight.
“Thank you,” he says.
“See? Painful but survivable.”
“I will repay you.”
“There it is.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“I will repay every credit.”
“Kauss.”
“And repair the damage to the bakery.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Yes.”
The force of that one word stops me. He stands on the precinct steps with blood on his coat, shame in his eyes, and his shoulders locked like he expects me to argue because argument is the only form of mercy he understands.
