Page 162 of The Sun He Buried

He leaves the glove on the table and puts both bare hands around the cup.

I sit across from him.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks at me over the cup. Doesn’t answer.

“Your hands are scraped, your face is bleeding, you slept outside, and you look terrible.”

“Your care becomes cruel.”

I put my elbows on the table. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Everywhere you’re looking.”

“Can I do anything?”

His hands stop around the cup.

Both eyes settle on me.

He stays that way long enough that the fire pops behind me.

“You should know better than to pity me.”

“I don’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

His fingers tighten.

“I killed a woman in front of you. You watched me feed from another. Which part suggested I required saving?”

There it is.

This should sound the same as breakfast.

It doesn’t, though.

Breakfast was aimed exactly where he wanted it. This is a wounded man throwing whatever he can reach.

I look at the cup in his hands.

“The part where you were face-down in the snow suggested coffee.”

He says nothing.

“Coffee doesn’t forgive you,” I add. “It’s coffee.”

The purple eye stays on me.

“You hurt her.”

His hands go still again.

“I know.”