Page 65 of Silent Shadows

“Trash,” I say.

Jax drops the spoon. “Wow.”

“Respectfully.”

“Still hurts.”

Miles laughs beside me, soft and unguarded.

And I realize, with sudden clarity, that the Machine doesn’t feel quite as foreign as it did yesterday.

Not like I’m an insider. But less like I’m standing outside the glass. More like someone left the door cracked open. And for reasons I refuse to examine tonight, I want to step inside.

chapter

eight

MILES

By Monday morning, Daisy has officially developed camp habits.

Not useful ones, but habits nonetheless.

For example: she steals everyone’s chargers despite owning fourteen of her own. She leaves half-empty coffee cups in places that defy both logic and physics. She narrates things under her breath when she thinks nobody’s listening, which, unfortunately for her, is impossible because she talks to herself like someone recording bonus commentary on a DVD.

Which might be one of my favorite things about her.

I've always been a commentary-track guy. My shelves at home are lined with old DVDs, not because the picture quality's better, but because I like hearing how people think. The little observations they make. The jokes that never made the final cut. The reasons behind the decisions nobody else notices.

Daisy does that in real time. None of it's for anyone else. Half the time she doesn't even realize she's saying it out loud. I've spent years hiking through some of the quietest places left in the country because I love the silence. Now, for the first time, I might not hate someone’s chattiness.

And this one catches me off guard a little: she’s trying. Actually trying.

I notice it Monday morning when she climbs out of the bunk before anyone else besides me, hair a complete disaster, oversized hoodie swallowing her whole.

She squints at me from across the Machine, still half asleep, and something in my chest gives way. It shouldn't matter that I'm the first person she sees in the morning. It really, really does.

“Why are you always awake before the sun? It’s supposed to be my time,” she groans.

“It’s called discipline.”

“It’s called unresolved issues.”

I grin despite myself and hand her coffee. Her fingers brush mine, and the rush wakes me up more than my coffee ever could.

She takes a sip without questioning it first.

Then pauses.

Looks down at the cup.

Then at me.

“Is this oat milk?”

I shrug like I didn’t notice after exactly two diner trips.

“Oat milk with one sugar.”