Page 8 of You Were Warned: Part One

I rip myself off him so fast I nearly tumble backward, scrambling until my back slams into the side of the bed. Crow stays where he is because we have done this before, and we both know what happens if he fights back.

“Shit, Crow.”

“I’m good.” He sits up and straightens his prosthesis. “It was getting loud.”

“How many times have I told you not to put yourself in danger?”

“Every time,” he says, getting up off the floor. “And yet I’m going to be here anyway, so you can stop wasting your breath.”

“I could have broken your neck.”

“You could have.” He reaches down and picks up the bottle of water he apparently brought in, placing it on the nightstand. “But you didn’t.”

I look at the ceiling. The room is dark, but not pitch-black. It means it’s early, maybe around five.

“Go back to bed,” I tell him.

“Not tired,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. He’s in his civvies: an old pair of combat pants and a faded T-shirt with a hole in the left shoulder.

“Do you want a coffee before you go in?” he asks.

“I’ll make it at the bar.”

“I’ll make it here—give me ten minutes.”

I don’t argue, since arguing with Crow is a waste of energy. He disappears back down the hall, and I sit in the darkness for a moment to gather myself, then get up and dress for the day.

When I get to the kitchen, Crow has a black coffee waiting for me. Khodi is already up, sitting at the counter and eating something cold out of a container as he reads something on his phone that has him smiling. I presume it’s Leni. She came here over the Christmas break to see her sister Valli, and they hit it off.

“You’re on surveillance at eight,” I tell Crow.

“I know when my shift starts, Rue.”

“Just checking.”

Khodi glances up from his phone at me, then looks back down but says nothing. I know he would have heard my nightmare, and I’m thankful he doesn’t comment. “Good morning to you too,” he says instead, which is his way of acknowledging me without saying, “Hey asshole, you woke me up again.”

“Morning.”

Crow sits across from me, and we drink our coffees in silence. We’ve been in many situations together in the past, and silence is not awkward between us. He lost his leg two years before I left the service. I was there, and we don’t talk about it. He doesn’t need me to feel guilty, and I don’t need him to tell me not to.

He found the island first and called me after he had been here for almost two years. It was not long after I was medically discharged, and he asked if I needed a room, so I hopped on a plane and ended up here.

I finish my coffee and put on my jacket; there is no point sitting around doing nothing.

“What’s on the menu for breakfast?” Crow asks.

“Shakshuka. I got fresh tomatoes yesterday.”

I think about the recipe Kelly, Noa’s mom, sent me last week, handwritten on a card tucked inside an envelope. She told me she adapted it with a secret ingredient, and I may as well make use of it because her children can’t cook to save their lives, and she’s too old to keep secrets about food. The secret is pomegranate molasses. She wrote at the bottom of her note: Feed them well and they’ll tell you everything. Feed them badly and you’ll deserve what you get. I have been meaning to try the recipe since the card arrived, and today is the day.

“Save me some,” Crow says.

“Come in and get it yourself.”

“I will.”

Khodi doesn’t even look up from his phone as he adds, “Me too.”