“The mood should not be light.”
“Kauss, if I let the mood be what it wants to be, I’ll start crying, and I really don’t want to cry in front of the scary alien I’m trying to impress.”
The words strike strangely.
“You are trying to impress me?”
Her cheeks color beneath the bruising. “That may be the concussion talking.”
“Concussions reveal truth?”
“No, they reveal poor judgment.”
I lift her again because she is swaying worse now, and she allows it with only a small sound of pain. The stairwell to her apartment is narrow enough that I have to turn sideways. My shoulders brush both walls. The space smells of old wood, laundry soap, and the faint floral oil she must use somewhere upstairs. Each step creaks beneath my weight in a way that suggests the building disapproves of Vakutan anatomy.
“If these stairs collapse, Darlene will kill me,” Evie mutters.
“Darlene will attempt it.”
“She’s meaner than she looks.”
“She looks mean.”
That pulls another quiet laugh from her. It is weak, but real.
Her apartment above the bakery is small and warm. A faded rug covers the main room floor. Books are stacked near the sofa. A little table by the window holds a half-dead plant that appears to be losing a long argument with existence. The walls carry photographs, old bakery flyers, and a framed painting of Halo when it must have been beautiful in a cleaner, younger way. Rain taps against the windows. The entire place smells like her: soap, sugar, clean cotton, coffee, and a trace of citrus.
I set her on the sofa.
She immediately tries to sit upright.
“No,” I say.
“I need the kit.”
“Tell me where.”
“Bathroom cabinet, top shelf.”
I find it too quickly because the apartment is small and I have spent years locating supplies under worse conditions. The first-aid kit is larger than expected and better stocked than most civilian homes. Sensible. She is stubborn, not stupid.
When I return, she has her compad in hand and is trying to focus on the projection with one eye squinted.
“Who are you calling?” I ask.
“Mira.”
“The nurse.”
“You remember?”
“I remember useful information.”
She gives me a faint smile. “I’m useful information?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes without permission. Her smile softens, and I look away first.
