My control almost fails.
She is upright. Alive. Breathing. There is no fresh blood on her face, though old bruises still mark her cheek from the alley. Her hair has come loose from its knot. Flour streaks one side of her sweater. Her hands are shaking around the broom handle, but her chin is lifted as if dignity can brace cracked walls.
Her eyes find mine.
For one impossible moment, the room becomes silent around us.
Then she gives me a smile that is not a smile at all, only the shape of one worn because other people need her to.
“Hey,” she says. “You picked a hell of a time to skip dinner service.”
The broom handle snaps in my imagination. Ron’s arm snaps next. His neck. The wrists of every boy who touched these tables, these counters, this place she built as shelter for people who have too little shelter already.
I make myself breathe.
“Are you injured?” I ask.
“No.”
“Truth.”
She swallows. “Not physically.”
The answer does more damage than if she had said yes.
I cross the room. Glass crunches under my boots. Everyone goes very still, but I cannot spare them. I stop in front of Evie and look down at her hands. Her knuckles are pale around the broom. A small splinter has lodged in the heel of her palm. I see it because I am close enough now to see every tremor.
“Who touched you?”
“No one.”
“Truth.”
Her eyes flash, wounded and sharp. “They shoved past me. One grabbed my arm. That’s it.”
I look at her sleeve. The fabric is stretched near the elbow. “Which one?”
“Kauss.”
“Which one?”
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Do not do that in here.”
The room presses in around us. Darlene watches without pretending otherwise. Mr. Eddison keeps his head down, buthis broom has stopped moving. Renn’s jaw works as if he wants to say something and cannot decide whether courage is worth survival.
I force my voice quieter. “Which one?”
Evie’s eyes glisten, but she refuses the tears. “A skinny one with blue hair. Not Ron. Ron mostly talked.”
“Talked.”
“He’s good at that.” Her mouth twists. “He made it a whole performance. Said Halo businesses need friends. Said bad things happen when people stand alone. Said I had chosen the wrong protector.”
The word protector crawls through the ruined bakery and finds every violent instinct I own.
“What did you tell him?”
“That Sweet Tooth isn’t paying protection money to a gang whose fashion sense peaked at middle-school rebellion.”
