She laughs once, wet and broken. “Oh, great. I’ll just switch that off. Very helpful.”
“I did not mean?—”
“I know.” She wipes her face with the heel of her hand, then looks at the ruined display case again. Her voice shrinks. “I held it together while everyone was here.”
“Yes.”
“I made jokes.”
“Yes.”
“I told Mrs. Pell I was fine.”
“You lied.”
“Professionally.”
The second tear falls, then a third. She presses one hand to her mouth like she can hold the rest in through force. Her shoulders shake once, and that small motion finishes what the gang started. Not the bakery. Not the glass. Me.
I move before thought can argue. I step close enough that she can lean if she chooses, but I do not grab her. I do not cage her. I do not decide for her. I stand there with my hands open and useless.
She looks at them.
Then she steps into me.
Carefully, because her ribs still ache, she presses her forehead against my chest. Her hands curl in the front of my coat. She cries quietly, almost silently, as if even grief must be considerate of the walls. I lower one hand to the back of her shoulder, barely touching at first, then more firmly when she does not pull away.
She is warm. She is shaking. She is alive.
“I’m so mad,” she whispers into my coat. “I’m so damn mad.”
“You should be.”
“They broke my grandmother’s case.”
“Yes.”
“They scared Mrs. Pell so badly she dropped her bag.”
“Yes.”
“They made Mr. Eddison look old.”
“He is old.”
“He looked older.”
“I understand.”
“I hate them.”
The words are muffled, fierce, honest.
My hand spreads against her back. “Good.”
She tilts her head enough to glare up at me through wet lashes. “Don’t sound so pleased.”
“Hate is useful.”
