"You're transportation. Same thing right now." I pile sheets in his arms, then blankets, then my grandmother's quilt that weighs more than any blanket should but it's warm."Grimm needs this. He's always cold, have you noticed? He shivers but tries to hide it."
"He's not—"
"Here, pillowcases. All of them." I dart to the windows, pulling down curtains. Those warehouse windows are just black squares staring at nothing. "We need these for basic human dignity."
"You can't take your curtains."
"Watch me. They're already down." The fabric tears free. I eye my rug. "This too. Someone could sleep on this instead of the diseased floor."
"It's attached to your floor."
"Rugs are meant to move. That's the entire point." I roll it up, adding it to his growing mountain. Can't see his face anymore but his exasperation radiates through the fabric barrier.
Kitchen next. I grab everything useful while talking—silence makes me nervous. "My good pot. These wooden spoons without splinters—splinters cause infections and we don't have antibiotics. Do we have antibiotics? When was the last time anyone had a tetanus shot?"
"This is excessive—"
"Shh. Carrying time, not commenting time." I grab paint supplies, then dash for my winter coat. "Someone small will need this."
"It's your coat."
"Was my coat. Things change quickly." I add decorative pillows to his pile. Even the one with embarrassing embroidery. "Don't judge the daisies."
The moldy bread on my counter stops me. "I was going to feed the shadows tomorrow. Your shadows. But there's no tomorrow now."
Something shifts in what I can see of his face above the blanket mountain. I'm already moving again, grabbing my good pillow.
"This is for you. Your neck's always tense. You get those headaches behind your eyes? Bad pillows cause that."
"Ready?" His voice comes out muffled.
I take one last look. Mrs. Harwicke's portrait glaring from the corner with her honest nose she never paid for. The worried trees waiting on their easel.
"Ready."
Shadow travel with forty pounds of bedding goes exactly as badly as expected. We explode into the warehouse trailing blankets and pillows. A decorative cushion bounces off his head with a little poof.
"Medical supplies," I announce to no one, already gathering things. If I stop moving I'll think about how bizarre this is.
I distribute immediately. Grimm gets the quilt even though he pretends he doesn't need it. Ridge gets good pillowcases—still shaking from earlier. Syl gets the wool blanket. She's been shivering for hours.
"Is that your rug?" Davis asks.
"Our rug now. Communal property."
I haul everything to my medical corner—a space between rust stains where the roof leaks less. Someone's already waiting, holding his arm wrong.
"Small scratch," he says. They all say that.
It needs seventeen stitches we don't have. Golden light pours from my hands instead, warm and obvious now that everyone knows. The wound knits closed while everyone watches.
"Yes, I glow. No, I can't turn it off. Yes, it's always warm. No, I don't take requests unless you're actually dying."
Ridge brings a blanket he definitely stole. Finn brings the turkey baster again, asking if it's useful. It is. I send him for soap.
Someone mentions Aldric—the maybe-traitor locked up somewhere.
"Has anyone fed him?"
