Cold Fish, Warm Meal

The tray gave way under me, and for one stupid second I was more angry at the ice than at my back. Fish and brine across my boots felt like the kind of humiliation I know how to handle. The rider watching from the road probably thought I was too proud to ask for help. Maybe I was. Ada made me eat anyway, and the meal was hot enough to make my throat tighten for reasons I did not care to examine.

I keep thinking about the warning I ignored yesterday. Not the warning itself—people say warnings because they think words can keep the world from biting. I keep thinking about the moment I noticed and chose not to act. That was mine. If I had looked sooner, maybe the missing crew would not feel so much like a verdict waiting for me.

The rain made the town feel smaller. Every argument in the pub sounded like men trying to decide who deserved to be blamed for a dead crew. I wanted to tell them blame is quieter than a body, but I stayed with my meal and let them carry it. I am good at carrying things. I am less good at putting them down.

My back is wrapped, and the warmth from Ada's food has already gone. I should sleep before the road gets worse. Instead I am rehearsing the fight, not the punches—my face, the way people will look when they realise I am still dangerous, the way I can make this about motion instead of fear. If I get loud enough, maybe nobody will notice I am frightened.

Tomorrow I will drive. Tonight I can admit this: I do not want to be looked at. I want to be needed, because needed has instructions. Needed does not ask whether I am still capable of choosing well.