I draw air through one lung, then another, then all four. The bakery returns by pieces. Warm light. Rain on glass. Sugar. Coffee. Not smoke. Not blood. Not Horus IV.
“I broke the cup,” I say.
“It was already ugly.”
“I will pay.”
“I hated that cup.”
“I will clean it.”
“Darlene already has a broom.”
Darlene’s voice comes from somewhere behind her. “I also have the common sense not to hand glass shards to a man having a war flashback.”
Evie does not look away from me. “Do you need outside?”
Yes.
No.
I do not know.
“I am fine,” I say.
“No, you’re not. But you are here, and nobody’s mad about the cup.”
I hate that she sees this much. I hate more that she does not look frightened.
“I should go,” I say.
“You can.” Her voice remains steady. “Or you can sit in the kitchen where it’s quieter. You don’t have to explain.”
The offer is too gentle to defend against.
I sit in the kitchen.
For ten minutes, perhaps fifteen, I remain at the prep table while the bakery resumes around me. Evie does not hover. Darlene sweeps the glass and says nothing except, “That cup had it coming.” Someone in the front room laughs uneasily, and the sound begins pulling normalcy back over the moment like a blanket over a body.
Eventually Evie enters with a fresh mug of coffee. A larger one this time, plain white, chipped at the rim but sturdy.
She sets it down near my hand. “This one’s less ugly, but I’m willing to risk it.”
“I frightened your customers.”
“Probably. They’ll survive.”
“I could have hurt someone.”
“But you didn’t.”
“You do not know that I wouldn’t.”
She sits across from me despite the work waiting outside. “I know you moved away from everyone the second it happened. I know you kept your hands open. I know you looked more scared of yourself than anyone else looked of you.”
My throat tightens.
She continues carefully, “You were Alliance, weren’t you?”
