"She's on the phone. Looks upset."
"Good."
Minutes pass. Janelle paces. Sits. Paces again. At one point she throws a pen across the room with enough force that I see it bounce off the far wall.
"Definitely upset," I murmur.
Grath shifts beside me, trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped space. His elbow jabs my ribs.
"Ow."
"Sorry."
He adjusts again. Now his knee digs into my thigh.
"You're taking up all the room."
"There is no room."
"Exactly."
He huffs, then goes still. Perfectly, unnaturally still, like he's trying to take up as little space as possible despite being roughly the size of a refrigerator.
I glance at him, lowering the binoculars for a moment. His jaw is clenched, his shoulders hunched at an awkward angle that can't possibly be sustainable. "You okay?"
"Fine." The word comes out tight, clipped.
"You look uncomfortable."
"I'm very uncomfortable." He says it flatly, matter-of-fact, like he's reporting the weather.
"You can move, you know. Adjust. Whatever."
"You said I'm taking up all the room." There's something almost wounded in his tone, defensive in that earnest way he gets when he thinks he's done something wrong.
"I didn't mean freeze like a statue." I am exasperated. "I just meant—I don't know. Be reasonable about it. We're both stuck in here."
He relaxes slightly, and his arm settles against mine. The contact is warm and solid and strangely reassuring.
We fall into silence, watching the window. Janelle makes another call. Then another. Her movements grow sharper, more agitated.
"She's planning something," I say.
"Something bad."
"Something we need to stop."
Grath nods, his jaw tight. Then, quietly, "What if we can't?"
The question catches me off guard. I lower the binoculars and turn to look at him.
"What?"
"What if we can't stop her. What if she wins and you lose the café." His eyes are dark in the dim light, his expression unreadable. "What then?"
My stomach twists. The fear I've been pushing down for days surges up, sharp and cold.
"I don't know."
