He studies me for a second, then holds out a hand.
I stare at it.
He sighs. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird. I’m just surprised.”
“Take the hand, babyface.”
I take it.
His grip is firm and brief, and he gives one sharp nod as if he is approving a piece of equipment for use.
“You did all right,” he says.
That should not get to me.
It does.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Still don’t quote me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good.” He drops my hand. “And don’t write us like heroes.”
I pause.
Kev shifts his bag onto his shoulder. “People get weird about that.”
“Heroes?”
“Yeah. Makes it sound clean. Easy. Like we’re built different and nothing gets in.” He scratches his jaw, looking towards the appliance bay instead of at me. “Just write it true.”
I nod, not because I have an answer ready, but because he deserves one that means something.
“I’ll try.”
Kev looks back at me. “Better.”
“Than what?”
“Promising.”
He walks away before I can decide what to do with that.
Mish appears next, as if summoned by the emotional inconvenience of the moment.
“I corrected your inventory notes,” she says, handing me a folded sheet of paper.
I unfold it. There are neat annotations, three question marks beside one of my terms and, at the bottom,Do not describe Kev as emotionally complex unless you want him to become unbearable.
I laugh.
“Useful?” she asks.
“Very.”
