Page 32 of Cherry Picking

don’t patronize me. it’s not going to take

Evie

fine. your team was a disaster and you should feel bad

A short laugh punches out of me. Öberg looks over from the seat across the aisle, and I face the dark window to keep the grin to myself.

Briggs

much better. thanks

Evie

any time. professional curiosity—does this object strike you as being possessed?

She attaches a photo. It’s a small ceramic angel, maybe six inches tall, with eyes that have cracked into a terrifying blue stare. It’s missing a wing, and its tiny porcelain hands are fisted around a shape I can’t quite identify.

I snort, the post-game static in my head finally clearing.

Briggs

what is that thing holding?

Evie

WE DON’T KNOW. I’m voting olive branch. tomás is convinced it’s a human femur

Briggs

that’s the coworker, right?

Evie

yep. the most well-adjusted person on the payroll. which, again, is a very low bar

I wonder what draws a person to a career involving death. My only references are Ray and Evie—one who can bridge the gap with a grieving stranger on asphalt, and one who can rattle off national mortality rates at a gravesite. Both exceptional at the job. Neither what you’d expect.

On the subject of things you wouldn’t expect: Augie is currently sprawled in the seat next to mine, his mouth ajar as he sleeps through the ride, a mangled protein bar still gripped in his fist. I snap a photo and send it off.

Briggs

speaking of things that shouldn’t exist, here’s August

Evie

wow. is he available?

My stomach takes a slow roll. It’s an odd thing for her to ask, even as a joke.

Briggs

you’d actually date a hockey player?

Evie

who said a single word about dating?

Briggs