Page 36 of Crosscurrent

“You don’t get to carry that. His uncle put Owen in play. Not you.”

Skye pursed her lips, staring up at the ceiling. “Maybe that won’t be a bad thing.”

“For Owen?”

Skye shrugged. Smallest shrug. “That, too. But I meant for us.”

Cara stared at the strange woman. She would not have guessed Skye had that kind of insight.

As if reading her thoughts, Skye smiled shyly. “I know, right?”

Cara didn’t know what to say to that, so she simply nodded.

"What's your favorite kind of bread?" Skye asked.

Cara opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I haven't decided yet."

Skye nodded as if she'd guessed the answer. "I miss my grandmother's pierogies."

"Polish?" Cara asked.

"The heart of Western Pennsylvania."

A piece of Skye that Cara now had. Not a name. Not an address. But a piece. More than she herself gave for sure.

"My mother made tamales every Christmas Eve," Cara said. "I’d die for one right now."

Skye took the offering the way she'd taken Owen's apple Friday morning — pocketed it without eating it. Kept it.

A longer silence.

"Ray used to make me eggs," Skye said.

"Were they good?"

"Not even close. He was a terrible cook. Burned them every time." She huffed, a small sound that was as close to a laugh as Cara had seen from her. “I mean, you’d think he’d get it right by accident once in a while.”

Cara grinned. “It would only be logical. The percentages have to go in your favor occasionally.”

"I don't know why I just told you that," Skye said.

"Because we both have to start somewhere."

Skye nodded slowly, as if digesting the words. “We should eat.”

“We should.” Cara rose, waving Skye toward the stairs. “No good comes of philosophizing on an empty stomach.”

Skye snorted. “No good comes of philosophizing at all.”

13

Gabe got maybe three hours of fractured sleep before his brain gave up pretending.

By eight-thirty, sunlight flooded through the apartment’s front windows in bright coastal bands that made everything look deceptively normal. Down below, the bakery bell kept chiming every few minutes. Customers. Weekend traffic. The low hum of Saturday morning life continuing as if there wasn’t a hostile surveillance team circling the block.

He sat up slowly from the couch, neck stiff, eyes burning.

The apartment smelled faintly of coffee grounds and cinnamon from downstairs. Familiar. Safe.