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She doesn’t say anything.

Does she think I’m asking her out?

Because I’m not.

Even if, when you think about it, saving a damsel in distress is kind of heroic, and makes me the good guy, and women might like bad boys, but they need good guys to be happy, and... I’m a little bit of both.

Okay, a lotta one and a dash of the other.

“I only said that because of the food. You need to eat.”

“I wouldn’t be much fun. Migraines can make me sick. Like, the vomiting kind of sickness.”

I carry Victoria outside, and she perks up a little in the fresh air. That tears it. She either needs to go to White Pines or to the hospital. Some place with clean air.

Victoria winces as I sit her down and strap her in. I notice she’s sitting stiff, but hunched to one side.

“You hurt your neck? Or is that from the migraine?”

“Migraine,” she says. Too quickly.

But why would she lie?

“The offer is very nice, but food smells can make it worse. I know, I know, it’s a double-edged sword, because I need to eat something, but the wrong thing—”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it under control.”

I do not, in fact, have any idea of what control even looks like.

But don’t scare the girl.

But I should. Because then she’ll leave, and if she leaves, I won’t think about her, and I’m thinking about her so much, and holy shit, what is wrong with my brain? Is this adrenaline?

I’ve killed eight men who were all shooting at me, charging at me, ready to tear me apart and sew me back together to make me “more obedient” after killing my “creator.”

I don’t think my brain did this many gymnastics while trying not to die (get deader?). That was all instinct.

If I relied on instincts right now, it might be terrible.

So go back to “Don’t scare the girl.”

“Shouldn’t you turn it on?” Victoria whispers.

“Huh? Oh! Keys. I’ll be back.” I slink from the car and race into the house and back, vaulting into the driver’s seat and making the car shake. Victoria winces.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

Victoria nods.

“I’m not good at this, but I can handle a migraine. You should go to the hospital—”

“No!” she hisses as the old work van booms to life. “It’s just a headache. Honestly.”

“But you need clean air. People who have pills and the right kind of food.”

“I don’t have insurance, and I’m from out of state. I promise, I’m just a little sore. If I can just keep eating the pretzels, I’ll be fine,” she pleads.

“Well... Hey. I think I know a safe place for you. It’s quiet today, and there are definitely no food smells.”