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.
