She looks from the bag to me. "What’s that?"
"Stuff."
She lifts the flap. Silk and cotton, the kind of soft that forgives stitches. She thumbs through, wearing an unreadable expression until a red scrap of lace catches and pools over her fingers. She holds up the thong between two knuckles, her eyebrows climbing nearly to her hairline. Her full lips are almost smiling.
I shrug. "Came in a multipack. This one must have opened."
"Hmm." She tilts her head. "Bold for a man who buys herbal tea." She holds out a pack of chamomile tea next. I probably should have paid closer attention to the things the shopper bought.
"Chamomile is a weapon," I defend the herbal concoction. "Ask any grandmother."
"Thank you," she replies, and it sounds like a question until she adds, "for the charger. The hospital ones try to set things on fire."
"Trying to keep my investments alive."
"Romantic," she deadpans, but the corner of her mouth gives her away. She drops the thong back in the bag with a whisper of lace and checks my face like she wants to see which part of me flinches.
I don’t. I pull the privacy door half-closed with two fingers and drag the chair up with my boot. "How’s the head?"
"Attached." She taps her temple with the fork. "They want to keep me a week."
"Of course they do," I say. "They’re doctors."
"I’m out in two." She lifts the OJ, drinks it as if it insulted her.
"Take your time," I say. "I don’t have a fresh lead on Nico yet."
Her eyes lift. "Do you have anything?"
"Pieces." I leave it there. "You?"
She shakes her head once. "No. But my contacts are working on it."
I let the word sit for a moment before I go fishing, "Contacts. For anany odd job girl."
"Breadth of portfolio," she says. "Gig economy."
"Uh-huh."
We look at each other and let the static climb the walls. The heart monitor keeps a steady, bored rhythm. Outside, a cart squeaks by like it needs mercy.
She flips the blanket back. "Turn around."
"For what?"
"So I can put on the pajamas." She nods at the bag. "If I’m going to play wife, I should at least look like someone bought me soft things."
"Someonedid."
"Then be a gentleman and avert your eyes," she repeats, and plucks the red thong from the bag again, letting itdangle in the air between us like a dare. "Or don’t. Dealer’s choice."
I lean back. "Bathroom’s there."
She slides off the bed with a wince she doesn’t want me to see, gathers the PJs and the thong, and moves like a woman whose spine is a contract, IV pole rolling next to her like a silent sentinel. The door clicks. Water runs; a hanger rattles.
Her phone is in the dip of the blanket, unlocked; the screen is still glowing with a half-written message full of nothing. I don’t look at the text. I pick up the phone and the cable I brought, the one Dre built that looks like it was born in an Apple box but isn’t. Thumb-sized brick inline on the cord: hisghost. If a device is unlocked and recently trusted, it performs a ghost handshake, seeds a pairing key, and starts a backup to any chosen phone, in this case, mine. No prompts. No drama. It hums in your palm like a cat that bites.
I plug it in. The brick warms. Tiny LED: one blink, then a steady, regular charging light. On my watch, a silent banner crawls up from Dre: PAIR OK // SNAPSHOT 3% // MONITOR DROPPED. Good boy.
