That makes me look at the room differently.
At the reinforced windows. The extra locks. The cameras I installed on the main entrances without telling her. Still not enough. The rear approach and treeline need another pass.
“Guarded’s not always bad,” I say.
“No,” she agrees softly. “But it’s not the same as welcoming.”
She dips the roller again and climbs up on a step stool without asking for help.
I still the stool anyway.
“I’ve got it,” she says.
“Yeah.”
I don’t move my hand.
She rolls paint up near the ceiling, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
“Tell me something,” she says.
“About what?”
“You.”
“Be more specific.”
She sighs dramatically, dragging the roller down the wall in a long, even stroke. “Fine. Childhood. Give me something real.”
I keep my hand braced on the step stool while she reaches up toward the ceiling trim.
“That’s broad.”
“Okay,” she says. “Where did you grow up?”
My grip tightens slightly on the wood. “What do you mean?”
“Like… what was your house like? Suburbs? Farm? Did you have a tree you carved your initials into? Were you a feral woods child?”
I don’t answer right away.
She keeps painting, humming along to the music.
“I didn’t really grow up in one place,” I say finally.
She glances down at me. “Military family?”
“No.”
She tilts her head. “Then what?”
I look at the wall instead of her. “Foster care.”
The roller stops mid-stroke.
“What?”
“I was in the system,” I say. “From eight.”
