“Scars and dimples can coexist. Human civilization contains wonders.”
Evie’s face is glowing with the kind of happiness people should reserve for lottery wins and newborn children, not a damaged Vakutan losing control of his mouth for half a second.
“You have a nice smile,” she says.
I do not know what to do with that. Compliments aimed at my combat effectiveness, endurance, strength, intimidation value, or capacity for violence have context. This does not.
“It is not useful,” I say.
“It is to me.”
The words are soft. Too soft. They move through me like a blade warmed first in a fire.
Darlene looks between us, mutters something that sounds like “idiots in bloom,” and leaves.
I stay until the lunch rush ends.
I do not mean to. I keep finding reasons not to leave. A hinge on the rear door needs tightening. The display case’s electrical pop requires investigation. Mr. Eddison asks whether his compad can be made to stop calling him Patricia after a software update. Evie needs a flour sack moved despite insisting she can “absolutely manage it,” which nearly causes Darlene to throw a spoon at her.
By late afternoon, I know where the clean towels are kept. I know the soup schedule. I know Darlene pretends not to care when people cannot pay but marks their accounts with symbols that mean feed them anyway. I know Evie hums louder when she is tired and softer when she is worried. I know the bakery’swarmth does not fade even when rain darkens the windows and Halo presses its face against the glass.
When I finally leave, Evie follows me to the rear door.
“You’ll come tomorrow?” she asks.
The safe answer is no. The honorable answer is no. The truthful answer stands between us wearing my shape and saying nothing.
“I may be nearby,” I say.
She smiles. “Nearby has a stool now. Reinforced. Darlene ordered one from a warehouse supplier.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because the old one died nobly in service.”
“It cracked before I returned.”
“Anticipatory failure.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is in Halo.”
I pull my hood up. The evening air beyond the door smells of rain and engine smoke. It should feel like freedom compared to the soft trap of the bakery.
It does not.
“Lock the door after me,” I say.
“Yes, sir.”
I look at her.
She grins. “Too much?”
“Yes.”
“Noted for future use.”
