Page 40 of UNAwere

‘She’s had training.’

‘That was Nolan’s job, not ours.’

‘Yes…’

‘Of course, Warner.’

When there’s silence, I quickly step back to the bed and sit down before the door opens. Briggs’s gaze meets mine as soon as he steps in, and I frown when I see his eyes are slightly wide, his mouth parted. Weak sunlight trails in behind him.

‘C’mon,’ he says, shifting his gaze from me. ‘Let’s go.’

I don’t question it. I gather my things, grateful to see Briggs put my phone on charge last night. I answer a quick text from Maeve asking how I’m going with a cowboy emoji, and then follow Briggs out to the truck.

We drive in agonising silence, the air-conditioning on full speed, all vents directed at Briggs.

Neither of us makes an effort to talk. My body still aches from my meeting with Lucia, and I’m trying desperately to stop my mind from travelling a million miles an hour, sifting through what’s happened. Not just with the Karvers, but with Briggs.

When he pulls up at a service station at noon to get fuel, I stay in the passenger seat and close my eyes. I’m exhausted, and my legs itch to stretch, but I don’t have the energy to comply.

I’m jolted back to consciousness when Briggs opens the door beside me, and I shift in my seat when he leans in, handing me something.

I stare at the plastic cup, filled to the rim with red slushed iced.

‘Slushy,’ Briggs says dumbly when I don’t make any move to take it. ‘You wanted one?’

My stomach flutters and I quickly nod, grasping it.

‘Thanks…’

He grunts and closes the door, getting back in once he’s on the driver’s side again. There’s the rustling sound of plastic and then he hands me a premade sandwich. I set it aside as he starts the engine, and drives us out onto the highway. I take a sip of the slushy, the jaw-tinglingly sweet syrup rushing to my head. I let out a satisfied sound, sipping at it contentedly.

Briggs casts me a sidelong glance, and I see him visibly relax in his seat. In a matter of moments, the tension that was in the car before eases, and my mood lightens.

After another while, I finish my slushy and my sandwich, and then reach for the radio’s controls, switching it on. A song comes on, one I recognise, and I nod to the rhythm.

I start to hum to it.

Then sing the words.

Then, when the guitar solo comes in, I mimic the sound with my voice, using “neeerrwwws” and “reeeewwwrs”. It’s a typical thing for me: mimicking sounds that end up sticking and becoming a part of my daily verbal stims. Maeve hates how I still sing-song, “It’s gotta be-ah Master, ’cause they are-ah… faster!” from a parcel delivery advertisement that ran on TV about nine years ago. It’s not my fault it was catchy. But I can say now, Master was not faster. And had shockingly high delivery rates.

Briggs suddenly reaches over and turns the radio off.

I throw a look at him. ‘Hey!’

And here I was thinking the slushy had been a peace offering.

‘I need to focus,’ he says.

‘That was a good song…’

He rubs a hand over his jaw, the skin of his palm rasping across his beard. A bolt of electricity whizzes up my spine, and I grit my teeth against it, forcing my eyes away from him. I cross my arms on my chest.

Hello, tension, my old friend.

‘Warner wants me to train you,’ Briggs says after another moment, and the words come out forced, as if it takes all his effort to say them.

My heart jumps. ‘What? Why?’