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I give the smallest nod.
Later.
Her mouth presses tight, but she lets it go.
For now.
We need answers. Every empty gas tank. Every stripped garage. Every warning Luis gave us about voices in the city. Carlos knows more than he’s saying.
But he has blood drying on his clothes, Luis is shaking under a borrowed blanket, and the dead kids from that street are still sitting with us whether we name them or not.
Food first.
Questions after.
Trish tosses an instant ice pack at Carlos. “For the jaw.”
Carlos catches it against his chest and stares at her.
Joanie huffs. “Should have punched the other side too.”
Carlos presses the pack to his jaw, eyes cutting to her. “You want a medal?”
“I want an apology and maybe your dog.”
Wesker thumps his tail once. Traitor.
Trish corners Carlos long enough to check the bruising. He tolerates it for exactly three seconds before pulling away. She mutters something about dramatic teenage boys and leaves him alone.
Luis edges closer to Poppy, watching her hands while she shows him one of her flower drawings. Poppy has her sketchbook balanced on her knees, the page covered in curling vines and little blooms growing around what looks like a skull wearing a crown.
Relaxing too fast.
I don’t like it.
“Leon.”
My head turns slightly.
Mom leans in enough so only I can hear her, her voice low and far too amused. “School your glare before that boy bursts into flames.”
I blink at her.
She raises a brow. “You’re one step away from marching over there and planting yourself between them.”
I scowl. Not a bad idea, actually.
She pats my arm like I’m five. “Relax. She’s ten, not on a date.”
I do not relax.
Mom huffs a quiet laugh and straightens. “Lord help any boy that ever dares to hold her hand.”
A horrifying mental image of future teenage Poppy and some idiot with sweaty hands flashes through my mind. Absolutely not.
I drag my gaze away, forcing my shoulders to loosen. Barely.
Clair smiles at Luis. “You hungry?”
