Page 153 of Silent Shadows

“What thing?”

“The self-protective sarcasm thing.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’ve known me for, like, a few weeks.”

“Feels longer.”

The words hit, and my pulse skips in a way I resent.

To survive, I immediately pivot. “What does this mean for Strange Terrain?”

That hooks him. His whole posture shifts.

Even sick and wrapped in a blanket like a cryptid grandmother, Miles Adler cannot resist mission talk.

He tucks one leg underneath himself on the couch and leans toward me, laptop already halfway into his lap.

“Potentially?” The excitement between us sparks. Quiet at first. Then growing. “Well, your work matters. A lot.”

“How?”

“Because people care about narratives before they care about evidence.” He states it like a fact. Like he’s thought about it before. Obsessively, I’m sure.

I tilt my head. “Explain, conspiracy man.”

“I’m not a conspiracy man.”

“You own a mug that says I Want To Believe.”

“It’s vintage.”

I roll my eyes and he ignores me.

“The problem with this line of work,” he says, opening website analytics on his screen, “is everyone either treats it like comedy or certainty.”

I blink. “Okay?”

“Like, either Bigfoot is a punchline, or Bigfoot lives in a cave and the government has laser scans to prove it.”

I pause, considering that. “Do they?”

His expression stays serious for a beat too long. Then he coughs into his sleeve and sniffles. “No comment.”

I laugh despite myself, and my throat protests immediately.

He points. “See? Sick.”

“You are also sick.”

“Medium sick.”

“You’re wearing two blankets.”

“One is emotional support.”

I snort. Then regret it because my nose runs and my head throbs.

Miles reaches for the tea beside me without asking, checks if it’s still warm, and hands it to me.