Page 8 of Wings
I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist I was fine, that I didn't need anyone treating me like a child. But when I reached for mymessenger bag, my hands shook. Not a little tremor, but full-on shaking like I'd been hit with electricity.
"That's what I thought." Doc took the bag with gentleness that contrasted with his gruff voice. I noticed his own hands had a tremor now—subtle, but there. New since the last time I'd really looked. Since the heart thing he refused to discuss beyond "getting old is hell, kid."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're not." He slung my bag over his shoulder, the medical supplies redistributing weight with a soft clink of glass vials. "You're running on fumes and stubbornness. When's your next shift?"
"Tomorrow night."
"So you've got thirty-six hours to remember you're human." He started walking toward his ancient Ford pickup, that determined stride that meant resistance was futile. "Come on. Breakfast. Non-negotiable."
"Doc, I really should—"
"What? Go home to that empty apartment and stare at the walls? Take another shower hot enough to peel paint? Reorganize your already organized kitchen?"
He knew me too well. Three years of these dawn exchanges had given him insight I wished he didn't have. He'd never pushed before, never insisted on more than our brief handoffs. But something in my face tonight—this morning—had tripped his paternal instincts.
"I'm not hungry," I tried one last time.
"Bullshit." He unlocked the truck, the door creaking like every joint in both our bodies. "Get in. I'm buying, and you're eating. Real food. Maybe even vegetables if I'm feeling particularly cruel."
I climbed into the passenger seat because arguing took energy I didn't have. The truck smelled like motor oil and pipe tobacco. Safe smells. Honest smells.
Doc settled behind the wheel, my messenger bag carefully placed behind his seat where no one could grab it through a window. Always thinking, always planning. We had that in common, at least.
"There's a new security protocol," he said as he started the engine. It turned over smooth despite its age, because Doc maintained everything in his life with obsessive care. "For the pickups."
I made a noncommittal sound, too tired to process new information.
"Young guy," he continued, navigating out of the garage with practiced ease. "Prospect. Military type. Good head on his shoulders."
The words washed over me without sticking. Another face to memorize, another person to trust or not trust. The mathematics of safety got more complex every day. I let my head rest against the window, watching streetlights blur past like a countdown to something I couldn't name.
The Sunrise Diner squatted on Route 47 like it had been dropped from orbit in 1963 and decided to stay. Chrome and cracked vinyl and dreams that had expired with the warranty. Doc held the door for me, bells chiming our arrival to the three other customers who didn't bother looking up from their coffee and existential crises.
Red vinyl booths sat down one wall, each one patched with duct tape in slightly different shades. Everything smelled likebacon grease and strong coffee, with an undertone of lemon cleaner.
"Hey there, Doc." Donna appeared with a coffee pot already in hand, her beehive hairdo defying gravity. She'd been working here since the pyramids were new, probably. Her uniform was pink polyester that had survived countless wash cycles, name tag slightly crooked but polished to a shine. "Your usual booth?"
"Thanks, darling." Doc guided me to a corner booth. The vinyl wheezed as we sat, releasing the ghosts of a thousand previous occupants.
Donna poured coffee without asking, the stream of liquid black as motor oil and probably just as useful for keeping engines running. "What'll it be?"
"Black coffee, wheat toast," Doc said. His usual. The man ate the same breakfast every morning, probably had since the seventies. "And for the young lady . . ."
I stared at the menu, words swimming. The exhaustion sat on me like a weighted blanket, making everything feel distant and underwater. Donna waited with practiced patience, probably used to zombies who worked night shifts and couldn't quite remember how to human in daylight.
"I . . ." My mouth opened without consulting my brain. "Chocolate chip pancakes, extra whipped cream, and hot chocolate with the little marshmallows."
The words hung in the air like a confession.
That wasn't my order. That was little Ki's order, the girl who used to bounce in diner booths and beg for birthday breakfasts. The girl who colored paper placemats and made up stories about the people walking by outside. The girl who'd ordered this exact meal with my ex-boyfriend on good mornings, before the drugs, before the fists, before everything went to hell.
Donna’s eyebrow arched.
I raised both hands. “Look, I just spent eight hours elbow-deep in other people’s bodily fluids. If I want sugar for breakfast, the universe can deal.”
Doc snorted behind his newspaper. “She’s got a point, Donna.”
