“Empty traps today. But got lucky in the bush. Three quail.”
She freezes, the corners of her mouth dropping.
“You ever eat quail before?”
She shakes her head, face ambivalent.
“Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian or something.”
“Not that,” she says.
“And I imagine you’ve eaten worse as an embed.”
The corners of Sloane’s mouth tip up. Not into a smile, but something that’s not a frown. Somehow that feels like a victory.
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?” I ask.
She steps forward, her face opening just a tick. Not enough for most people to even notice. But I do.
“Kal puce,” she says without hesitation. “In Afghanistan.”
“God.” It comes out like a sharp exhale.
“Yep. Boiled sheep head and hooves. Quite a delicacy, apparently.”
“You make MREs sound good.”
She eyes the quail breasts and eggs as if she’s sizing me up. “Eaten plenty of those, too.”
“Best and worst?” I ask.
“Worst is easy. Four Fingers of Death.”
I laugh out loud, unexpectedly. Like echoing down the valley loud. Haven’t done that in too long to recall.
She doesn’t. But her mouth does do this lopsided grin thing.
“I thought you were gonna say the Vomlet.”
She covers her mouth with her hand like she’s reliving something. But her body language is still guarded, stiff. “Don’t remind me.”
“Now best?”
“Probably Chili Mac.” She shrugs.
“Fair. Or Beef Ravioli.”
“Yeah, I could see that. Phoenix’s favorite.”
Our eyes meet. Too many questions rage behind them. So, I say the only thing that I can with complete honesty. “Wish he were here instead of me.”
She grimaces, looking away.
“Sorry.”
I didn’t mean to upset her. But I don’t know what else to say. And I can’t even tell her the truth. Or that the comment I just made was about the Phoenixbefore.
Notafter.
