Damn him, he’s right.
I find Tavia exactly where Pickles said she’d be, sitting among the growing stations with her data pad, markings dim and dull.
“Hey, small person.”
She looks up. Her markings brighten slightly. “Pickles calls me that!”
“He does. I think it’s his way of being affectionate.” I settle onto the floor beside her among the plants. “What are you working on?”
“I was documenting photosynthetic efficiency rates, but I’m not very focused right now.” She fidgets with her data pad. “Are you mad at me?”
“What? No! Tavia, why would I be mad at you?”
“Because I was too pushy this morning. Papa says I can be overwhelming when I get excited about things. And you left really suddenly, and you looked upset, and I thought maybe I did something wrong.”
This kid is going to absolutely destroy me.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I had some work stuff come up. Adult problems that have nothing to do with you. I promise.”
“But you looked scared.” Her yellow eyes are too perceptive. “When that message came. You looked how I feel sometimes when I have bad dreams about Mama.”
The comment catches me off guard. “You have dreams about that?”
“Sometimes. Papa says it’s normal to be scared of losing people you love.” She picks at her data pad. “Do you have people you’re scared of losing?”
I think about my parents. The accident. Nine years of running from attachments because losing them nearly broke me.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Is that why you’re leaving when the storm stops?”
The question hits like a gut punch. “I have other deliveries scheduled. A job to get back to.”
“But what if you didn’t have to leave?” She’s watching me with unblinking directness. “What if you could stay here? With us?”
“Tavia—”
“Papa smiles more when you’re here. Real smiles.” Her markings pulse hopefully. “And I like having you here too. You explain things that make sense, and you make Papa happy, and you do the voices when you read stories.”
“Your papa and I met yesterday.”
“So? Mama used to say sometimes you just know when something’s right.”
I have to smile despite everything. “You’re pretty wise for a small person.”
“Pickles says I demonstrate exceptional emotional intelligence for my developmental stage.”
“Pickles is right.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, surrounded by growing plants and the soft hum of atmospheric processors.
“Dove?” Tavia says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Even if you have to leave when the storm stops, could you maybe… come back sometime? To visit?”
The hope in her voice—raw and unguarded in the way only children can be—cracks something open in my chest. She’s asking me to be part of her life. This eight-year-old who barely knows me is offering something I haven’t had in nine years.
