Page 27

Kidd

Thursday. Same time. Same errand. Same bell jingling over Shelton's front door.

Same woman behind the counter looking at me like I'm a splinter she can't reach.

"Kidd. Your order's out back."

"Good morning to you too, Selene." Paper bag on the counter. Same Sal's wrapper. Same turkey club. "Brought you something."

Her pen stops mid-inventory line. She stares at the bag, then at me. Pride versus hunger, principle versus cranberry aioli. A war fought in absolute silence across a feed store counter with an orange cat as witness.

"You can't keep bringing me sandwiches."

"Watch me."

"That's not how this works."

"How what works?"

"Whatever this is." Her hand gestures between us, sharp and dismissive. "We're not friends. You don't owe me lunch."

"You're right. We're not friends. Friends don't steal each other's sandwiches. I owe you a debt, and where I come from, you fix what you break." My forearms lean on the counter, putting me closer than she'd like but not close enough to crowd. Close enough to see the fleck of gold in her left eye I missed on Tuesday. "Besides, you skipped lunch because of me. That's on my conscience."

"You have a conscience?"

"Somewhere under the sawdust. Takes a minute to find."

The corner of her mouth twitches. So small you'd miss it if you weren't looking. I'm looking.

"Where I come from, people who owe you things send a text. They don't drive across town with deli sandwiches."

"Where you come from sounds boring."

Something flashes through her expression. Complex. Quick. Like I stumbled on something she wasn't ready to have reflected back at her.

"Boring is the goal."

"Huh." Tap on the bag. "Well, Sal put extra turkey in this one. And a cookie from Marie. Maple. You strike me as a maple person."

A long look. The armor's thinner today. Not gone, not even close, but the mortar between the bricks is drying out. Underneath is just a woman who's tired of fighting everything that comes through the door.

"Thank you." Quiet. Real. And she takes the sandwich.

Nearly fall over. Not literally. Emotionally. Something in my chest does a full rotation. "Did you just..."

"Don't make it weird."

"Wouldn't dare." My whole face is making it weird. Can feel it. Every muscle in my grin is dialed to maximum, and she's choosing to ignore it, which might be the nicest thing she's done for me yet. "You eat. I'll load up."

The loading dock is good for burning off energy I've got no business carrying into a conversation with a woman who's told me in every way short of skywriting that she's not interested. Feed bags fly harder than necessary, heaved from the pallet to the truck bed with more force than fifty-pound sacks require. Stacked neater than necessary. Taking my sweet time, because through the dock window she's eating at the counter with that look people get when the food is good and they've stopped pretending otherwise. Eyes half-closed, shoulders dropping from their permanent position near her ears.

Want to make her look like that always. The thought plants itself in my chest like a fencepost. Deep. Set in concrete. Not going anywhere.

Back inside. Sandwich gone, wrapper folded into a neat square. Aioli on the corner of her mouth she doesn't know about. Something about that tiny detail makes her human in a way that cuts right through me. All that armor, all that distance, and there's cranberry aioli on her lip.

"So." Counter lean again. She doesn't tell me to stop this time. Progress. "How's Wild Peak treating you? Besides the sandwich theft."

"It's quiet."