"For kidnapping you?"
"For showing up!"
"That's what I do, honey!" She reaches over, squeezes my knee. "Now stop talking and just breathe!"
So I do. Eyes closed, head tipped back, wind shredding through my hair and sun burning my face. The music's so loud I'm wearing it, vibrating in my ribs, and Maeve's singing along—off-key, enthusiastic, not giving a single fuck. The desert flies past and I'm not drowning anymore. Not for right now, at least.
The road hums under the tires. My hair whips across my face and I don't fix it. Just let the wind do what it wants, let the music be too loud, let myself exist outside that suffocating silence for the first time in days.
Maeve's still singing. Drumming on the steering wheel. The sun's brutal but it feels good, feels real, feels like maybe I'm still alive under all this hollow.
A diner squats in the heat, looking like it hasn't been updated since the seventies. The kind of place that smells like old coffee and bacon grease before you even open the door.
"Perfect," Maeve says, killing the engine.
We slide into a corner booth. The vinyl squeaks, sticks to my legs. A waitress materializes—older woman, tired eyes, coffee pot already in hand. Doesn't even wait for us to open the menus before she's pouring.
"Pancakes," Maeve says. "Two orders. Extra bacon. And keep this coming." She taps the mug.
The waitress nods like she's heard it all before and disappears through the swinging kitchen door.
"I didn't order—"
"You need to eat." Maeve dumps cream into her coffee, white swirling through brown. "When's the last time you had an actual meal?"
I try to think. "Tuesday?"
"Jesus Christ, Scout."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You're never hungry when you're miserable." She takes a sip, watches me over the rim. "Trust me on this one."
The kitchen door swings. The waitress returns faster than seems possible, sliding plates onto our table—stacks of pancakes golden and steaming, bacon crispy at the edges, butter already melting into yellow pools. The smell hits me and—
Oh god. My stomach clenches, sharp and sudden. I'm starving. Actually starving.
I pick up my fork. Cut into the pancakes—they're soft, give easy under the knife. First bite and the taste explodes—sweetness, butter, that perfect doughy center. I'm shoveling it in before I can think, syrup on my tongue, bacon salty-sweet, coffee burning my throat.
"There she is," Maeve says, and there's something smug in her voice.
I look up mid-bite. "What?"
"Nothing. Just good to see you acting human again."
Another bite. The bacon's perfect—crispy and greasy and exactly what my body needs. I drain half my coffee, burn my tongue, don't care. Three bites. Five. My stomach's waking up, screaming for more.
"Slow down," Maeve says, laughing. "It's not going anywhere."
"Says you." But I do slow down. A little. Force myself to taste instead of just inhale. "This is really good."
"Everything's good when you're actually eating it." She spears a piece of bacon. "So. Now that you're not in danger of passing out. You wanna tell me what happened?"
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. "What do you mean?"
"Scout. Come on. You look like you haven't slept in a week. Finn said you've barely left your desk. And Holt—" She makes a face. "Holt looks like someone kicked his dog. So. Spill."
I set down my fork. Wrap both hands around my coffee mug. The ceramic's hot enough to burn but I hold on anyway.
