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“Ghost.” Ash takes a BLT from Lev and unwraps it.

“If you’re planning to stay up all night, you need to fill your health bar.” Lev nudges the burger closer. “Kain would be upset if you passed out from hunger.”

He would. Kain is obsessive about my health meter. My foot starts tapping on the linoleum. But I don’t have to do things just because Kain says so.

But what’s stopping me from eating if I don’t need to wait for Kain to tell me to eat?

I trace the workbook’s worn cover, then close it and drop it onto the duffel at my feet so grease won’t transfer to the pages.

The burger is next. I pick it up and unwrap it to reveal a soft bun, still warm from the grill, and cheese melted into the patty. I lift the top bun and stare at the pickles.

They’re warm. Limp. The translucent rings sunk into the cheese.

My nose wrinkles. “Eww.”

I grab one of the plastic forks from the piles of napkins and salt packets and excavate the first pickle. It’s slippery with burger juice, and it starts to slide off the tines.

I drop it onto the wrapper with a wet plop. “Gross.”

Another pickle. Hot, soft, the texture all wrong.

I flick it off and drop it beside the first.

Kain would never bring me a burger with pickles.

One of Ash’s eyebrows climbs toward his hairline, but he doesn’t comment as he takes the BLT container Lev holds out.

Three more pickles come off my burger, each one hitting the wrapper with a small, wet sound that sends a shiver through my skin.

By the time I’m done, a little pile of warm, discarded pickles sit on the wrapper, and the burger patty shows through the sad, mangled slice of cheese.

Placing the top bun back on, I take a bite of the burger.

Better.

The meat is hot, the bun soft, and the cheese salty. I chew and swallow, then reach for a fry.

Crisp. Thin-cut. Still warm enough that the salt sticks to my fingers.

As I eat three in quick succession, the crunch filling the quiet room, I notice the single pickle spear resting in Ash’s BLT container, separated by a fold of wrapper.

Cold. Crisp. Pale green and firm.

My hand stops mid-reach for another fry. “Can I have your pickle?”

Ash blinks at me. “But I thought you didn’t like them.”

“I don’t like them when they're hot.” I lean across the gap between our chairs and spear his pickle with my fork before he can answer. “Cold is good.”

Ash takes in the discarded pile on my wrapper, then the cold spear now on my fork. “They’re the same pickle.”

“No, they’re not.” I nudge the workbook with the toe of my shoe. “Just check my user manual. Hot pickles are Unsafe. Cold pickles are Conditional, under Crisp Textures.”

Lev shifts forward on the windowsill, his hand extending. “Is that your user manual? May I see it?”

Did William tell them to steal it from me?

My foot lands on top of the workbook to block him. “No.”