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Every bruise.

Every shadow.

Every unspoken fear.

"You look better. The swelling's going down."

"I know."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

"Sit. I'll make you something."

I don't argue.

Honestly, I don't have the energy.

Just settle onto a stool at the counter and watch her move around the kitchen.

She cracks eggs into a bowl, whisking them, then butters toast before she pours orange juice.

The domestic normalcy of it is soothing.

A reminder that life goes on.

That breakfast still gets made.

That mothers still take care of their children.

Even when the world feels like it's falling apart.

"The club's tense," I say.

It's not a question.

Her hands pause for just a second, then she resumes. "Yes."

"Something's happening tonight."

Again, not a question.

"Yes."

"The traffickers?"

She turns to look at me.

Weighing how much to say.

How much I can handle.

How much will help versus how much will hurt.

"Gunnar got information from the man who attacked you. Names. Locations. There's a shipment tonight—kids being moved through a motel near the Georgia line. The club is going to intercept."

Kids. Children.