They moved.
• • •
• • •
The care of Alistair's hands.
Tav had been noting this since week three. The way he held things — cups and pens and the secondary phone — with attention that exceeded the functional. The way he'd applied pressure to Tav's shoulder in the staircase and again in the car and again now, in the back of Lucien's vehicle, with the focused he had learned that doing one thing well was more useful than doing several things adequately.
The hands were left-handed. The rings on the left hand.
Tav’a eyes moved to the city past the window.
He thought about what was true.
The clarity of thinking something and believing it was unusual. He had been thinking many things for many years without believing them — without the conviction that distinguishes a thought from a certainty. This thought had the conviction.
"You're thinking," Alistair said.
"Yes."
"About what?"
Tav found his face.
"The kitchen at the safe house," he said. "Specifically the morning version of it."
Alistair studied him steadily. "The morning version."
"With coffee. Made better than required." He held the look. "And you. In it."
Something in Alistair's face was very still.
Then the warmth arrived — the real, unmanaged version.
"Yes," he said. "That's going to happen."
"I know," Tav said.
"Many times," Alistair said.
"Yes."
"Starting tomorrow morning."
"Yes." He watched the window. "The shoulder will be managed by then."
"The shoulder is going to be managed by tonight," Alistair said. "We're going to the physician before we go anywhere."
"The shoulder—"
"Is going to be properly assessed by a physician," Alistair said, with the flat certainty of someone stating a non-negotiable. "Before the safe house. Before the kitchen. Before any of the rest of it."
Tav looked at him.
"Yes," he said.
"Good."
