She nods, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then looks at me. “This is better than the eggs.”
“Which eggs,” I ask, though I already know she didn’t like either option Faulker had left this morning, either did I, I’m just better at pretending.
“The runny ones,” she clarifies, wrinkling her nose. “The wiggly eggs.”
“Poached eggs,” I say. “Or eggs Benedict.”
She shudders. “They’re both slimy.”
“They’re supposed to be soft,” I explain, suppressing a grin.
“They’re pretending to be soup,” she points to mine. “Eggs aren’t soup.”
That feels unarguable.
“I like scrambled eggs,” she continues. “And sunny eggs. I kind of like the secret eggs, too.”
“Secret eggs?”
“The ones hiding under stuff,” she says, gesturing with her sandwich. “But not so much.”
“That’s fair. Eggs should be honest.”
She beams, pleased to be understood, and keeps eating.
Around us, the café hums with quiet chaos. Families negotiating bites. Strollers squeaking. A group of kids arguingover dinosaurs. No one is paying attention to us. I think I’m going to love it here.
Lucy eats steadily, feet swinging. Halfway through, she looks up. “Can we see the big bones after.”
“Yes,” I say. “We have time.”
She grins, “And the sparkly rocks.”
“One room today,” I say. “Then we have to go to work.”
She considers, then nods. “Okay.”
“So which one will it be?”
“Big bones.”
Dinosaurs it is, I think but, don’t say, because big bones is as adorable as colors and not writes or signs.
She finishes, wipes her mouth carefully, folds the napkin, and slides off her seat. She reaches for my hand without looking. I take it, shove the unopened water bottles in my bag, and grab the garbage to throw out on the way.
At11:30, we leave the café and head back into the museum. We have dinosaurs ahead of us —big bones—Ancient things to explore.
Chapter 13
Pembrooke Books
Lenzin
Practice ends exactly the way it always does. My body spent. But for the last week, my mind has been in overdrive. The rink empties in stages—music cuts out, helmets unclip—and the scent of ice, sweat, and effort lingers. I follow my unwritten script: shower, change, stretch. No cutting corners.
It should calm me. It doesn’t. Between the final drill and the last lace coming undone, one thought takes hold: they’re out there. Hildy and Lucy, making their way through the city as daylight dies. Subways crowding. Sidewalks shrinking. That nighttime edge New York gets, when everyone moves faster, sharper, less forgiving.
I despise it. Not in theory, in my gut. I tell myself it’s rational—risk assessment, pure math. Lucy is three; Hildy is stretched thin. Dusk narrows margins. It’s not paranoia. Then I remind myself I’m not responsible for them. That one doesn’t stick.
