“It means you call me Halo.”
“Why?”
“Because you do.”
She stares at me, waiting for more. When I don’t offer it, she tries again. “I mean the name. Why Halo?”
“Battlefield luck. Operators say I have a guardian angel.”
“Do you?”
“No.” I pour the soup into a pot. Light the gas stove. The flame hisses to life. “Luck is just what civilians call probability.”
“That’s cynical.”
“That’s experience.”
The soup heats. I stir it. She studies my hands, my movements.
“You cook,” she says.
“I heat things up.”
“It smells good.”
I pour two bowls. Hand one to her. She takes it. Her fingers brush mine again—that same jolt of static. She doesn’t pull away this time. Her gaze drops to my hand, to the burn scar there.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For saving my life. Even though I pepper-sprayed you.”
“I appreciate a woman who defends herself.”
“I still don’t know what’s happening. Not really.” She meets my eyes. “But I know you’re safe.”
The word twists in my gut. Safe.
You don’t know me, Cassie. If you did, you’d run.
“Eat,” I say.
We finish in silence. Then I clear the table. Pull out a map. Paper. No GPS.
“Lesson two,” I say. “Navigation. If we get separated. If something happens to me.”
“Wait.” She holds up a hand. “You’re planning for us to get separated?”
“I plan for contingencies. That’s how you survive.”
“But you said?—”
“I said I’d keep you alive. But if I go down, you need to know what to do.” I point to the map. “We’re here. If you have to run, you head west. Through the woods. Two miles to the service road. Follow it south to Route 211.”
She stares at the map. “Route 211.”
“Take it to Route 29. Twenty miles south. You’ll see a green farmhouse with a red barn. That’s the rally point. Memorize it. Green farmhouse. Red barn. Route 29 south. Repeat it.”
