Page 23 of Collateral Damage
Nervous energy is a finite fuel. Eventually, the adrenaline will bottom out, and she’ll crash.
Her eyes shift from the Glock to my face. She nods slowly. "So do you. I'm not much of a cook, but... it would help to have something to do besides watching you prepare for an insurgency."
I pick up a magazine, thumbing rounds into place with a rhythmic clack-clack-clack. "I’m not fussy."
Her brow furrows, a flicker of genuine concern crossing her face. "I'll do my best, but don't expect much. I'm afraid I'm not handling this as well as I could be."
I set the loaded magazine down and meet her gaze. The overhead light is harsh, catching the exhaustion in her expression, but her spine is still straight.
"Ava." I keep my voice low and grounded. "You're handling this better than you think."
She holds my stare for a long, heavy beat before she clears her throat and looks away. “Thank you. I appreciate you saying that.”
I can hear the unspoken, even if it’s not true, hovering on her lips.
She stands, her movements stiff and robotic, and heads for the counter. There’s a solitary, grease-stained spiral cookbook wedged between the toaster and the wall. She zeros in on it like it’s a medical text, leafing through the pages with a clinical frown.
"What's the verdict?" I ask, checking the tension on my holster.
"It says," she starts, her voice dry as bone, "that There’s an entire chapter in here dedicated to 'Potluck Casseroles for the End Times.' Apparently, the apocalypse is heavily reliant on condensed mushroom soup."
Hiding a smile, I don't look up from the mag I'm loading. "Survivalists love cream of mushroom. It's the structural adhesive of the prepper world. You can't rebuild society without a binder."
With an elegant snort, she moves to the pantry door, pulling it open. The hinges let out a long, rusty groan.
"Silas," she says, her voice flat. "I'm a neurologist. I spend my days mapping the most complex organ in the known universe. I can tell you exactly which neurotransmitters are firing in your brain right now."
"And?"
"And I’m looking at a five-pound bucket of 'Survivor’s Choice' freeze-dried bacon bits and a Mylar bag labeled 'Tactical Soy Crumbs,'" she says, turning back to me. "The book says I should be able to make a 'Patriot's Loaf' out of this. I don't even know which part of the soy is tactical."
I can't help the chuckle that breaks through. “Axel's cousin likes to be prepared. Check the back. There's usually a stash for people who haven't surrendered to the revolution yet."
She ducks down, rummaging through the plastic bins with a clatter of metal. She resurfaces holding a vacuum-sealed brick of pasta and a jar of something from the very back of the shelf.
"I found penne," she says, holding it up like a trophy. "And a jar of 'Old Glory Marinara.' The label says it's 'fortified with essential minerals for long-term sustainment.'" She pauses, squinting at the fine print. "It also says it was packaged in 2018. I’m fairly certain this sauce has more seniority in the field than some of your team."
"Perfect," I deadpan. "I've always wanted my dinner to be a historical artifact."
She gives a visible shudder and closes the cookbook with a definitive thud. She looks at the meager row of tins on the counter with the calm, decisive expression of a surgeon who has just decided a limb is unsalvageable.
"Pasta it is," she declares. "And I'm going to choose to believe the 'Best By' date was merely a polite suggestion from a manufacturer."
A smile twitches on my lips, one I can’t quite hide. A woman who can navigate the architecture of a human brain, defeated by a cupboard full of survivalist rations.
"I'll take mine al dente," I say. "If the 'Tactical Soy' allows for it."
She tosses the wooden spoon onto the counter and reaches for a pot, a small, genuine spark of life returning to her eyes. "You’ll take it however it comes out of the pot, Silas. Don't push your luck."
I keep my eyes on the gear and let the silence settle, but for the first time since we left Frederick, the air doesn't feel like it's about to shatter.
Seven
Ava
I’m standing at the stove, clutching a wooden spoon like a surgical instrument I don't quite know how to calibrate. I’m a neurologist. I can map the lateral geniculate nucleus with my eyes closed; I can navigate a cerebral hemorrhage with a laser focus that most people find chilling.
Put me in a kitchen, and it's a masterclass in why takeout exists.
