Page 15 of Rescue

“A few.”

“Cool!” She grins, clearly fascinated. “My teacher reads books with kissing in them. She says they’re romantic. I think yours is better.”

“Good to know,” I say, hiding a smirk as I try to focus on my book again. But Layla’s not done.

“Does your boss know you are here?” she asks, her legs swinging wildly.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Is your boss nice?”

I pause, considering. “Depends on the day.”

She giggles at that, clearly pleased with herself. “Do you have friends?”

Her question catches me off guard. “A few,” I say, unsure of what else to tell her.

“What are they like?”

“Busy,” I reply, a little amused by her persistence.

Layla nods sagely, as though she understands the complexities of adult friendships. “Do you miss them?”

I blink, momentarily taken aback. “Sometimes,” I admit, my voice quieter than before.

She doesn’t press further, thankfully, and instead starts fidgeting with the wooden bench, picking at the weathered edges.

“Are you a good cook?” she asks suddenly, switching gears as only a child can.

“Decent enough,” I reply. “Why?”

“Do you also like cats or only dogs?”

“Both,” I say without hesitation.

“Do you like chocolate?” she asks, her eyes narrowing as if this is the most important question yet.

“Who doesn’t?”

“Good answer,” she says, grinning.

Her chatter starts up almost instantly again, a flood of information about her school, her teacher, and some ongoing drama involving crayons and a boy named Liam. I nod occasionally, making the odd noise of acknowledgment. Despite myself, I find her enthusiasm oddly endearing. Layla doesn’t need much encouragement to keep going.

“You’re very quiet,” she says suddenly, peering up at me. “Do you not like talking?”

“I like listening,” I say. “Sometimes.”

“That’s good,” she decides with a firm nod, as though she’s just discovered a valuable trait. “You’re a good listener.”

I don’t bother to correct her. Instead, I glance back at my book, but she fidgets on the bench beside me, her attention span already wavering. Her legs swing beneath her, and her hands pick at the wood.

Suddenly she gasps and snatches her hand back. “Ow!”

Her yelp pulls me to attention. “What happened?”

Layla holds up her finger, her eyes wide and filling with tears. “I got a splinter! It hurts!”

Sure enough, there’s a sizeable piece of wood lodged in her finger. “That’s a big one,” I say, inspecting it closely.

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