Page 54 of Beyond Protection
I held my mother's gift, thinking about her studio. North-facing windows. The wheel in the corner that hummed whenit spun. Clay dust on every surface, no matter how much she swept.
Perfection is the outward expression of inner discipline,she'd told me once. I'd been twelve, watching her throw the same bowl for the fifth time because the rim wasn't right.
What if you can't get it perfect?I'd asked.
She'd looked at me with those dark eyes that saw everything.Then you learn what the clay is trying to tell you. Sometimes imperfection is the point.
I'd thought about that a lot in my life. About what happens when you can't tell the difference between a controlled accident and just fucking up.
"Mac?"
Eamon's voice pulled me back. I realized I'd been standing there, staring at the newspaper-wrapped ceramic, not moving.
"Sorry." I tucked the package carefully into my jacket pocket. "I just—my mom will love this."
"When this is over—" He stopped.
I looked up. "When what's over?"
"The threat. I want to bring you back here. To buy your mom something else. Without me scanning exits the whole time."
Future tense. He was thinking about what came after.
"That's a long way off," I said.
"I know." He held my gaze. "But I'm already planning it."
We started walking again, back toward the main arcade where vendors were closing up. The flow of people shifted—workers leaving, last-minute shoppers rushing through, a tour group bottlenecking near the flower stalls.
Eamon moved closer. "Stay with me."
The crowd compressed. Someone's shoulder bag swung into my hip. A teenager on his phone nearly walked through me. The noise levels rose—overlapping conversations, a busker'ssaxophone, someone's kid having a meltdown about the pig statue.
Then someone bumped me. Hard.
Not a brush. It was a full-body collision from behind that sent me stumbling forward two steps.
"Sorry!" A woman's voice, breathless. "So sorry—these crowds—"
I caught myself on the edge of a vendor's table. Turned.
She was already moving away. Medium height, grey coat, dark hair under a knit cap—one of a dozen similar-looking people in winter clothes, swallowed by the market crowd in seconds.
"You okay?" Eamon's hand landed on my elbow, steadying.
"Yeah. Just—" I straightened. "People not watching where they're going."
Eamon's eyes tracked the direction she'd gone. His jaw ticked. That hypervigilant assessment I'd seen a hundred times this week, trying to sort threat from coincidence.
"Happens," I said. "It's Pike Place at Christmas."
"Right." But his hand stayed on my elbow, and his attention remained sharp on the crowd.
We kept walking. The alley narrowed, brick walls pressing closer. The guitar music had stopped.
The vendor stalls gave way to cafe backs and service doors. Less picturesque. The parts of the market that tourists didn't photograph.
I liked it there.
