Green. Scarred. Broad enough to block out the sun.
He's staring at the scattered books with an expression I can't parse. Horror, maybe. Or grief. Hard to tell with tusks.
"What," I say, very calmly, very slowly, "did you just do."
His head snaps up. Eyes meet mine. They're pale. Almost gray. Startlingly soft for someone who just destroyed my awning.
"I tripped."
"You tripped."
"The curb." He gestures vaguely. "It was higher than I thought."
I look at the curb. It's a standard curb. The kind that exists on every street in every city. The kind that does not typically cause catastrophic awning failure.
"You threw a crate through my window because of a curb."
"Not through. Into. Technically."
"Oh,technically." I press my fingers to my temples. Breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth. The meditation app I downloaded last year would be proud. "Do you see these books?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what they were doing before you tripped?"
"Sitting in the crate?"
"They werenot in the street." My voice stays level. Stays calm. Stays approximately three seconds away from a full meltdown. "Now they are in the street. Do you understand the problem?"
"I'll pick them up."
"You'll pick them up."
"Right now." He's already moving. Crouching. Scooping paperbacks into his arms with surprising care. His hands arehuge. Scarred knuckles. Blunt nails. He handles the books like they might break.
Which they might. Because they've been hurled into the street by a walking disaster.
I crouch next to him. Start gathering. A cozy mystery. A cookbook. A self-help guide with a cover so aggressively cheerful it makes my teeth ache.
"I'm sorry." His voice is low. Rough. He doesn't look at me. Keeps his eyes on the books. "I didn't mean to. I was trying to be careful."
"Careful people don't demolish awnings."
"I know." His voice remains quiet, steady. No argument. No excuses.
"Careful people watch where they're going instead of barreling down the sidewalk like a—like a—" I fumble for the comparison. Nothing quite captures it.
"I know."
"Careful peopledon't?—"
"I know." He picks up another book. Turns it over. Brushes dirt from the spine. "I'm not good at this yet. The city. The walking. The not breaking things."
There's something in his tone. Not defensive. Not dismissive.
Honest.
I glance at him. Really look. The coat is threadbare at the elbows. The duffel bag slumped on the sidewalk has seen better decades. There's a scuff on his jaw that might be a scar or might be a scrape from this exact incident.
