I file it away. Another detail. Another piece of Saul Bennett.
Apparently I collect men the way I collect mugs, by accident and with long-term emotional consequences.
We drink our tea in silence.
And when the sky starts to lighten outside the window, we’re still standing there.
Together.
For now.
Which is all I can ask for at 5 AM with tea and a heart that’s still learning how to stay in one piece.
Chapter Twenty-Six
SAUL
I keep counting the days.
Not in my notebook this time, in my head. A constant ticker running underneath everything else, reminding me how little time I have left.
Day two. Five days remaining.
Day three. Four days remaining.
Day four. Three days remaining.
I’ve never counted down before. In eight years of relocations, I’ve counted forward, days since placement, weeks since last check-in, months until a witness is considered stable. Forward is progress. Forward means the job is working.
Counting backward means something else entirely.
It means I don’t want to leave.
Day two, we set up the bakery.
Stevie moves through the kitchen like she’s remembering a language she used to speak. Her hands know where things should go even when her mind is somewhere else.
She organizes the dry storage by frequency of use, flour and sugar within arm’s reach, specialty items on higher shelves.
She tests the oven temperature with a thermometer she brought from her old life. One I picked for her. One of the few things she packed that isn’t tied to one of them.
I carry boxes. Unpack equipment.
Do the heavy lifting because it’s something I can do, something useful, something that doesn’t require me to watch her face and wonder what she’s thinking.
She’s thinking about them. I know she is.
It’s there in the way she pauses sometimes, hand hovering over a mixing bowl, eyes going distant. The way she opens a drawer and stares at it like she’s expecting to find something that isn’t there. The way she hasn’t touched the peanut butter I bought at the grocery store, hasn’t even moved it from the bag to the pantry.
I don’t mention it.
Some grief needs space more than words.
By afternoon, the kitchen is taking shape. Clean counters, organized shelves, equipment tested and ready. Stevie stands in the middle of it, hands on her hips, surveying her domain.
“It’s real,” she says quietly. “It’s actually real.”
“It’s yours.”
