Outside, the air slaps across our skin. Cold, damp, full of the smell of rain, waiting for the right moment. Kiera pulls her jacket tighter around herself as I adjust mine, feeling the sting under my ribs flare. We trudge back down the hill silently, the truck waiting where we left it, alone in the gravel. Kiera climbs into the passenger seat slower than she got out, one hand braced on the door frame, the other hovering over her hip. When she settles into her seat, she sucks in a breath through her teeth. “You’re going to hate putting a seatbelt on,” I tease.
“I already hate breathing,” she mutters as she grabs the belt and drags it across anyway, shifting it higher to avoid the fresh mark. I slide behindthe wheel, the engine coughing to life on the second try. For a moment, I just sit there with my hands on the wheel, feeling the throb of the cut under my ribs in time with the pulse in my fingers. Her name synced to my heartbeat. “You’re thinking too loud,” she says, head tipped back against the seat, eyes half-closed.
“Occupational hazard,” I say. “You’ll like the conclusion, though.”
“Oh?”
Putting the truck into drive, my eyes stay on the busted chapel in the rearview mirror. “We’re not telling Cam and Lila what happened in there. He gets the phone and the notebook. The rest stays off every record.”
Her mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile. “You don’t want the data point logged?”
“I want something they don’t own,” I say. “Or analyze. Or graph. This was for us.”
Kiera turns her head to look at me fully, eyes tracing my face, then dropping, once, to where my shirt hides her name. Her smile softens. “Then drive, Ghost,” she says. “We’ve got some contraband to deliver.”
Pulling onto the road, the chapel shrinks in the mirror, disappearing behind the trees. Every nerve feels rewired. The program can keep its phases, its files, and its questions about what we are. We answered one today in a broken church that doesn’t belong to them, but to us. Our silent claim to something that was touched by their dirty fucking hands for amusement.
Slowly, rain starts, a few cold dots on the windshield, ticking like a second heartbeat. I flick the wipers on low. Beside me, Kiera slumps deeper into the seat, chin tucked into her collar, eyes still half-closed. The dashboard glow cuts under her lashes, turning them into thin shadows on her cheeks. “You going to pass out on me?” I ask.
“Not unless you start monologuing about our feelings,” she says without opening her eyes.
“So yes,” I say. “You’re absolutely going to pass out.”
That earns me a ghost of a smile. She rolls her head toward me, studying my profile like she’s trying to decide where to aim the next insult. “You’re driving like we’ve got a bomb in the back,” she says.
“We kind of do.”
“Cam’s going to salivate all over that data,” she laughs. “He’s going to pretend he isn’t, but his left eye will twitch every time he tries to play it cool.”
“His eye twitches because of you,” I tease. “You keep rearranging his lab when he’s not looking.”
“It’s enrichment,” she shrugs. “He’s a captive genius. I’m providing stimuli.”
“Right,” I say. “Nothing to do with the fact that you enjoy watching him mentally disassemble and reassemble his whole workflow in real time.”
Kiera shrugs, wincing when the motion tugs at her hip. “How’s your side?” she asks.
“Present,” I say. “Expressive.”
“Poor ghost,” she laughs. “Always having to make a statement.”
“Says the one who branded me,” I remind her.
“Please,” Kiera scoffs. “You’re the one who handed me the knife and pointed at your heart like you were signing a lease.”
“Temporary occupancy,” I say. “Month-to-month lease.”
“Sure,” she giggles dryly. “That’s why you flinched when I hit the R. Commitment allergies acting up?” I don’t answer that. The wipers squeak across the glass, buying me a few seconds.
Out of habit, my hand drifts toward the console, fingers brushing the ancient radio dial. I hesitate, then turn it on. Static crackles, then a station slowly bleeds through, some old song with too much reverb and not enough bass. Kiera blinks as the sound pulls her all the way back into her body. “Wow,” she says. “You’re really setting a mood. Is this where you tell me you’ve had this cassette since you were twelve?”
“It’s a radio.”
“Yeah, but emotionally it’s a cassette.” She turns to me. “Admit it. You’ve brooded to this exact song in some abandoned parking lot.”
“Hard to tell. A lot of my brooding involves abandoned parking lots.” The song rolls on, vocals too soft to make out the words. For a few miles, the only sounds are the rain, the song, and the engine. Kiera’s breathing evens out along the way, not quite sleep, not quite awake. “You scared him,” I say finally.
“Cam?”
