"He might have betrayed us all."
"That's rude if true, but he still needs food. Can't interrogate someone who's fainted from hunger." I try to find him, get stopped by guards, end up leaving bread with promises to deliver it.
Back in my corner, hanging sheets for privacy, doing math that doesn't work—ten blankets for forty people.
"How many injured?" I ask Gray Streak when he appears.
"Walking wounded? Fifteen. Serious? Four."
"Bring the serious ones first."
"You've been healing all day."
"I'll rest when everyone's functional. Limping leads to compensation injuries."
The warehouse darkens. No electricity, just barrel fires creating wrong shadows. Finally alone, hanging my apartment curtains over depressing windows, it hits me.
Seventeen people died today.
Tomás liked his bread slightly burnt. Reminded him of his grandmother who couldn't cook but tried. His daughter's four, wearing yellow in the picture he showed everyone. She doesn't know yet.
Asha was allergic to nuts. Should have made a list. What if there are other allergies? She'd apologize for it like it was personal failing.
Benedikt said thank you for everything. Yesterday—was it only yesterday?—he thanked me for teaching him proper tea.His mother used to make it before she died. Years ago but he still missed her.
The crying starts all at once. Everything leaking while I'm folding sheets that smell like home.
"Don't."
Ruvan's there suddenly, still in that ruined shirt.
"I'm sorry, I just—" Can't get words out.
"Don't apologize."
"Seventeen people—"
"I know."
Shadows form walls around us. Complete darkness except my golden glow. Nobody can see or hear us in this bubble.
He sits awkwardly, puts an arm around me. I collapse immediately, getting his shirt wet and snotty.
"They were learning to be happy. Tomás had that picture. Asha's poetry was terrible but she was proud. Someone needs to tell families but I don't know who—"
"I know."
"How?"
"I pay attention."
I cry until there's nothing left. His hand moves awkwardly on my back at first—little pats like he's not sure how pressure works. Then longer strokes when I don't pull away. His other hand in my hair, fingers working through tangles.
"Your hair has paint in it."
"Always does."
His fingers keep moving, catching knots and working them free. Soothing in that way that makes you cry harder before less. I do both, sobbing into his ruined shirt while he does something with his thumb on my spine that shouldn't be comforting but is.
