"Where you headed?"
I recite the address from memory. It's a sublease. Third floor. Shared kitchen. The landlord said something about 'cozy' which I've learned means 'your elbows will touch both walls.'
Rafe's eyebrows climb. "That's six blocks north. You know the way?"
"I have a map."
"Where?"
Good question. I pat my pockets. The torn one yields the apron. The other produces a bent spoon and a half-finished poem about rain that doesn't rhyme and probably never will.
"I had a map."
"Uh-huh."
He sighs. Not angry. Tired, maybe. Or just resigned to the fact that the universe has handed him a seven-foot disaster in an oversized coat.
"Come on," he says, adjusting the strap of his guitar case. "I'll walk you there."
I shift the nearest crate, feeling the bottles clink softly against each other inside. "You don't have to do that. Really. I'll figure it out."
"You ate my sandwich," he points out, and there's something almost playful in the way he says it. "You owe me."
"I offered to buy you another one," I remind him, though the words come out more defensive than I intend. "With actual money. Real compensation."
"And I'm collecting," Rafe says, already turning north. "Just not in sandwich form. I'm taking it in tour-guide services instead. Consider your debt transferred."
He starts walking. I gather my crates, my duffel, my dignity. Follow.
The street opens up ahead. More vendors. More noise. A tram rattles past, bell clanging. Rafe moves like he knows every crack in the pavement. Every shortcut. I lumber after him, trying not to knock into anyone.
Trying to be a useful orc in a city that hasn't decided if it has room for me yet.
But the books are safe. The sandwich was good. And I've made one friend, even if the introduction involved accidental theft.
It's a start.
The building squats between a laundromat and something that might be a tattoo parlor or a very enthusiastic art supply shop. Hard to tell. The windows are covered in designs that could be flash art or abstract explosions of color.
"This is it," Rafe says, gesturing at the narrow door wedged between them. Numbers above it match the ones I memorized. "Third floor. Watch the railing on the second landing. It's loose."
"Noted."
He shifts his guitar case. We've been walking for twenty minutes and he hasn't complained once about the detour. Hasn't asked why an orc needs three different spice containers in his personal belongings or why my duffel clanks when I set it down.
"Thanks," I tell him. "For the directions. And for not calling security when I committed food crime."
"Food crime." He grins. Actually grins this time, wide enough to show teeth. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Petty sandwich larceny?"
"Better." He steps back, one hand raised in a casual wave. "Good luck with the unpacking. Try not to eat anyone else's lunch."
"I make no promises."
He laughs and disappears into the crowd.
I stand there with my crates and my torn pocket and the feeling that I've just passed some kind of test I didn't know I was taking.
