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My left wrist curls protectively against my abdomen. “I can do it.”

He studies me, and, after a long moment, he inclines his head. “Alright.”

Surprised, I watch him squeeze a pea of pale ointment onto his gloved fingertip. He holds it out. With no help from my other hand, I’m unsure how to proceed. I tentatively press my wrist against his finger, then twist my arm, painting the irritated skin until it’s slick and cool. A sharp sting blossoms, then fades to a sweet relief that seeps through my veins.

“Better?” he asks.

“A little,” I admit.

“Good.”

Silence settles between us.

My head churns with questions, too many to ask, so I eventually settle on the simplest.

“Who are you?”

He hesitates, then answers evenly, “Adrien Delmonte.”

I whisper the name inside my head, searching for recognition that never comes. “Why do you know my name?”

His face becomes more serious. “Well, I was given a file on you by my boss. But I knew who you were before that. I… knew your father, Kamden.”

My head snaps up so fast my neck cracks. “What?”

“John.”

Every muscle in my body coils tight. “Don’t—”

Adrien’s eyebrows draw together. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say his name.” The words are harsher than I mean to be. “You don’t know him.”

“I did.”

“No,” I say, louder this time.

“I did,” he repeats calmly.

I shake my head, voice trembling. “No. My dad wasn’t friends with people like you.”

For some reason, Adrien chuckles—not mockingly, more bemused, like I’ve said something genuinely funny without meaning to.

I don’t know what he’s laughing at, and it makes me mad. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, sweetheart.” He rubs his jaw. “It’s just that John would have had some very strong opinions about your definition of ‘people like me.’”

“My dad was a good person.”

“I know.”

“He was in the military.”

“I know.”