He holds it out.
I blink at it. “Is this… for me?”
The look he gives me could shut down a conversation from across a football field. That slow, unblinking stare that doesn’t just answer you; it makes you feel stupid for asking.
Right. It’s for me.
I take it like it might vanish if I hesitate, my brain already spiraling. Am I supposed to be using this every time I shop? Is there a spending limit? How long am I even going to be living under whatever-this-is? Days? Weeks? Forever?
“Didn’t know room and board came with a shopping allowance for the hostage.”
Dima’s mouth twitches like he’s deciding whether it’s worth correcting me.
“Asset,” Dima supplies helpfully.
“Great. I’m anassetthat requires heirloom tomatoes.”
“Organicheirloom tomatoes,” he corrects, adding them to the cart.
I watch him select vegetables with surgical precision, checking each one. He has a system: squeeze, smell, weigh in his palm, approve or reject. It’s fascinating and terrifying.
“Where did you learn to shop like this?”
“Survival.”
“Survival requires perfect produce?”
“Survival requires perfection in everything.”
He says it simply, but there’s weight there. Like perfection isn’t a choice but a requirement. Like anything less than perfect might get you killed.
I’m contemplating this when I hear my name.
“Mary? Mary Sullivan?”
I turn to find Mrs. Henderson from three apartments down at my old building. Sweet lady—always has a little patch of cat hair clinging to her sweater and smells faintly of kibble and fabric softener—but genuinely kind.
“Mrs. Henderson! Hi!”
She’s looking between me and Dima with the expression of someone trying to solve an equation that doesn’t balance. “I heard you moved out. Rather suddenly.”
“Yeah, I… found a better place.”
“With your boyfriend?” She’s looking at Dima like he might eat her.
“He’s not—”
“Yes,” Dima says.
I almost choke on air. “What?”
“Boyfriend,” he confirms to Mrs. Henderson, who looks like she might need medical attention. “Very devoted.”
Mrs. Henderson blinks at me, at him, back at me. Then she does this slow little nod—the kind people give when they’re not sure if they’re agreeing or just buying themselves time—and mutters something about needing to check the sale on cereal before hurrying off like she’s trying not to be followed.
“Why did you say that?” I hiss when she’s gone.
He’s already walking toward the dairy section. “Easier.”
