Nara points at me. “That. That right there is why you get assaulted by life.”
“I am beloved by life.”
“Life filed a complaint.”
By six thirty, the bakery opens.
I am supposed to remain in the kitchen, but I can see the front through the pass-through window, and the first customers arrive with expressions already prepared for grief. News travels in Halo faster than official emergency response and with much better accuracy. Mr. Eddison comes in without his usual smile. Mrs. Pell arrives carrying a paper bag of oranges she pretends are “too bruised to sell.” Renn from the machine shop stands near the counter with his hat in both hands and his jaw clenched.
Darlene handles them like a bouncer in an apron.
“She’s alive,” she says before anyone can ask. “She’s stubborn. She’s not available for dramatic speeches. Buy something or get out of the way.”
Mr. Eddison leans to peer past her. “Evie?”
“I’m here,” I call from my stool.
His face crumples for half a second before he smooths it out. That nearly undoes me. “You okay, girl?”
“I’ve looked prettier.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
“I’m okay enough.”
A murmur moves through the room. Anger. Relief. Shame. The shame surprises me most, though maybe it shouldn’t. Halo people understand helplessness too well. They know what it means when someone gets hurt in a public street and everyone else survives by looking away.
Mrs. Pell sets the oranges on the counter. “No charge.”
“I’m not taking free inventory from you.”
“They’re ugly.”
“So am I today. We can’t all be free.”
Her mouth trembles. “Take the damn oranges, Evie.”
I nod because refusing would hurt her, and today already has enough hurt in it.
Renn clears his throat. “We heard one of those Memory boys had both arms busted.”
“Not both,” Darlene says. “Don’t spread rumors unless they’re inspiring.”
A dockworker near the door says, “They say the Vakutan did it.”
The bakery goes quieter.
I grip my water glass. “Kauss helped me.”
“Helped?” Renn says. “Sweetheart, I saw Neck Tattoo’s cousin outside the clinic this morning. Boy looked like he’d been fed through a trash compactor sideways.”
“Then maybe he’ll reconsider his hobbies.”
A few people laugh, but it is uneasy.
Mr. Eddison lowers his voice. “Nobody else would’ve stepped in. Not against Memories.”
That truth lands heavily in the warm bakery air. Coffee steam curls toward the ceiling. Rain ticks against the front glass. No one looks proud of themselves. No one should. I am not angry atthem exactly, but something in my chest aches anyway. I know fear. I know people have families, debts, bodies that break easily. I know the Poison Memories do not stop at one person if they decide to make examples.
