A name becomes dangerous when people use it gently.
I finish seating the wire and test the connection. The display case hums. Not smoothly. The compressor grinds with old fatigue, and the light flickers twice before holding steady, but cold air begins to move through the housing.
Evie gasps.
I look up.
She stands with both hands pressed against her apron, eyes wide with such naked relief that the fixed machine suddenly matters more than it should. The dead case was only glass, metal, and power. To her, it is something else. Her grandmother’s hands. Her mother’s mornings. The shape of normal returning by inches.
“You fixed it?” she asks.
“Partially.”
“You fixed it.”
“It may fail again.”
“It’s humming.”
“It is humming badly.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is not.”
She crosses the kitchen so fast Darlene snaps, “Ribs,” even though the bruises are mostly healed now.
Evie stops beside the case, not touching the exposed panel because I told her three times not to. She peers inside as if I have resurrected a beloved pet. “Can we use it?”
“Not until I seal the housing, stabilize the current, and monitor temperature variation.”
“Is that a yes with engineering foreplay?”
Darlene chokes on a laugh.
I stare at Evie.
Her eyes widen. “I said that out loud.”
“You did.”
“I blame fatigue.”
“You slept seven hours.”
“I blame emotional refrigeration.”
“That is not a condition.”
“It is in my bakery.”
Darlene wipes her hands on her apron. “If you two are done flirting over a corpse, breakfast rush starts in ten.”
“We are not flirting,” Evie says.
I return to the wiring because looking at her is increasingly difficult. “We are discussing refrigeration.”
“Passionately,” Darlene says.
