Page 3 of Honeyfires

She peered at them. "A hawk."

"Yes."

"A compass."

"Yes."

"Is that… Rilke?"

I blinked. "You know Rilke."

"Library science degree." She said it the way some people say I have a lawyer. "Okay. In retrospect, definitely not ironic. These are the tattoos of someone who has feelings and chose skin over journaling."

"That's—"

"What's the duct tape situation on your boot?"

I looked down. Silver duct tape. Two inches. Wrapping the toe of my left Doc Marten. I had genuinely stopped seeing it four months ago.

"That's holding it together," I said.

"It's duct tape."

"I had limited options."

"You're an adult."

"An adult," I confirmed, "with limited options."

She looked at the boot. Then at me. "Okay. And the embroidery on your jacket—is that also for holding it together?"

I was going to die here in this hallway. I was going to die, and the duct tape was going to be in the obituary. "My coworker did it."

"Your coworker."

"Long shift. My coworker, Miller, he does embroidery to decompress—"

"Just like that?"

"—and before I could establish any firm boundaries, he had already started."

Vera stared at me. "He embroidered your jacket."

"He said the jacket had energy and that the red honored it."

"And you wore it."

"The deed was done," I said. "There was nothing left to do but wear it with conviction."

She paused, but only for a moment. "A man came into my library on Tuesday to research whether his neighbor was legally a ghost," Vera said. "I thought that was going to be the week's headline."

"Was he? Legally?"

"No. Spiritually?" She tilted her head. "We don't have the resources."

"Right call."

"Thank you." She smoothed her skirt. "I've also classified you, by the way."