Ariel left the kitchen with Mara, the soft murmur of their voices fading down the hall as they headed toward the bathroom to re‑tape her bandage.
The moment her footsteps disappeared around the corner, the room shifted.
The clink of mugs, the low hum of the fridge, the ticking stove clock,everything seemed louder against the sudden silence between Arlo and Chris.
Arlo stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, arms folded, ankles crossed. Casual on the surface. Coiled underneath.
Chris stood by the table, fingers drumming once against the back of the chair Ariel had vacated before he forced them flat. His eyes were still on the doorway she'd gone through, even though she was long out of sight.
"You going to say it?" Arlo asked, after a beat. "Or just glare at the air until it bursts into flames?"
Chris's gaze snapped to him. The glare shifted. "You know what I'm going to say," he replied.
"Probably," Arlo said. "Say it anyway."
Chris moved, slow and deliberate, until he stood opposite Arlo with the island between them. It felt less like a kitchen and more like a neutral zone.
"You're in her bed," Chris said. "Her head. Her plans. Now your room too. How deep are you planning to get before you decide it's too much?"
"That's not what you're worried about," Arlo said. "Try again."
Chris's jaw flexed. "Fine," he said. "I'm worried that she is still bleeding from yesterday, hearing ghosts and trying to rebuild a life from rubble,and in the middle of that, you are letting her lean on you in ways you know she doesn't understand yet."
Arlo's eyes hardened. "She understands more than you think."
"She's in shock," Chris shot back. "Half the time, she's still in that car. Or in the shop. Or on that chair with your hand on her throat. You know how trauma works. You've used it enough. People grab the nearest steady thing. That doesn't make it a choice."
Arlo's fingers tightened on his biceps, white at the knuckles. "She came to my room," he said. "I didn't drag her there. I didn't ask. I didn't hint. I was going through files when she walked in and asked if she could stay."
"And you said yes," Chris said.
"Yes," Arlo replied.
"You could have said no," Chris pushed. "You could have sent her back to bed. To Mara. To me. You didn't."
Arlo's gaze never wavered. "She has had enough doors closed on her without her consent," he said. "I'm not adding mine to the list because it makes you feel safer."
"This isn't about me feeling safe," Chris snapped. "It's about her not waking up in three days and realizing she reached for you in the dark because you are the loudest gravity in the room, not because she actually wants this."
Something flickered in Arlo's eyes at that. Not guilt. Something more complicated.
"You think I haven't thought about that?" he asked quietly. "You think I'm not aware that half of what she feels right now is wrapped up in fear and gratitude and that stupid, stubborn heart of hers that keeps trying to find something decent in the people who hurt her?"
"Yes," Chris said. "I think you're aware. That's what scares me."
They stood there, two dangerous men with very different histories, very different skill sets, and exactly the same ache stamped on their faces when they said her name.
"You don't trust me with her," Arlo said.
Chris let out a short, humorless breath. "You want honesty?" he said. "No. I don't."
"Because of what I've done," Arlo said.
"Because of what you are," Chris corrected. "You solve problems by taking things apart. People, systems, feelings,you dismantle them until they fit your plans. She doesn't fit. And instead of stepping back, you're… learning to bend around her. That's new. That's dangerous. For her. For you. For all of us."
Arlo was silent for a moment.
"You're not completely wrong," he said.
Chris blinked. "That's a first."
Arlo shrugged one shoulder. "She does not fit," he said. "She never did. That's why I noticed her in the first place. And yes, I am… adjusting. I am not going to pretend otherwise."
"Do you even know what you want from her?" Chris asked. "Beyond the rush of having the one person in the room who doesn't automatically flinch from you anymore?"
Arlo hesitated.
He could have shrugged. Could have deflected with a line about strategy, about leverage, about how useful it was to have the bookshop girl willingly at his side instead of being dragged.
He didn't.
"I want her alive," he said. "First. Always. That doesn't change."
"That's the job," Chris said. "Try again."
Arlo's jaw worked. "I want…" He exhaled, the admission dragging itself out. "I want to stop being the worst decision she ever made."
The simplicity of it made Chris stop.
"She didn't choose you," Chris said slowly. "Harry did. Reed did."
"She chose to stay," Arlo said. "In the depot. In the safe house. Last night."
"She chose survival," Chris countered. "Don't twist it into romance."
"I'm not," Arlo said. "I am very clear about my sins. I am also clear that something shifted the moment she put her hand in mine instead of spitting in my face and running."
"Of course it did," Chris said. "You're not used to people choosing you for you. They choose your power. Your money. Your safety. She chose you because she's bleeding and tired and still thinks she can tame storms if she names them nice enough. That's not the same as love."
"I know," Arlo said softly.
"Do you?" Chris shot back. "Because right now, from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you're starting to see her as the one good thing in the middle of your mess. That's a lot to stack on a girl who just found out her best friend thought killing her might be mercy."
Silence dropped heavy between them.
"Say what you really want," Arlo said finally. "Stop circling."
Chris inhaled. Slow. Controlled.
"I want you to draw a line," he said. "A real one. Not just 'no touching unless she starts it.' A line that says: I will not use her trauma as a bridge to get what I want. I will not confuse her leaning on me because she's drowning with her choosing me because she can swim."
Arlo's eyes cooled. "You think I don't know the difference between a drowning girl and a swimmer?" he asked. "Chris, this is what I do. I've watched people reach for hands that are bad for them their whole lives. I've been the hand. I am trying—" He cut himself off, jaw snapping shut.
"Trying what?" Chris pressed. "Trying to be better because you think she's worth it? Or because you think you are?"
Arlo's laugh was a short, harsh thing. "I stopped thinking I was worth anything years ago," he said. "This is about her."
"Then prove it," Chris said. "With more than words and blankets."
Arlo tilted his head. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Spell it out. You're good at instructions."
Chris stared at him for a long beat, checking his motives the way he always did before a crucial conversation—what he really wanted, for himself, for Arlo, for Ariel.soulsoothe
"I want you to promise me something," he said at last. "And mean it."
"Careful," Arlo said. "You're starting to sound like her."
Chris didn't smile. "If she comes to you like last night again," he said, "if she crawls into your bed, into your head, into your arms,whatever you two decide to do with that… you never, ever use it to steer her choices about the rest of this. If she says no to a plan, you don't lean over and remind her of how safe she felt against you. You don't make her feel like agreeing with you is the price of your… warmth. You don't get to be both her shelter and her storm."
Arlo's gaze went flint‑hard.
"Do you really think so little of me," he asked quietly, "that you believe I'd weaponize the way she fell asleep on my shoulder to push her into killing a man she doesn't want dead?"
"Yes," Chris said. "Because I've seen you use less for more."
Arlo flinched. Just a flicker. There and gone.
"Fair," he said.
He looked down at his hands for a second, flexing them once, remembering the feel of her weight, the way she'd whispered this is me starting it with her fingers on his cheek.
When he looked up again, something had settled in his eyes. A line, drawn first inside himself.
"All right," he said. "You want a promise? Here it is. Whatever happens between us stays between us. I won't use it as leverage. Not for a deal. Not for a plan. Not for revenge. Not for anything that isn't… us, if there ever is an 'us' to talk about."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "Say it cleaner," he said.
Arlo's mouth twitched. "You really do sound like a therapist sometimes."
"Say it," Chris insisted.
Arlo straightened away from the counter. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped, clear, almost contractual.
"I will not use her feelings for me,or mine for her,to manipulate her choices about Harry, the buyer, the shop, or any part of this war," he said. "If she stands in a room and says no, I will take that no at face value. Not as a negotiation tactic. Not as a bruise to poke until she gives me a yes."
Chris exhaled. "And if you mess up?" he asked.
"Then you drag her out of my house and never let me see her again," Arlo said, just as cleanly. "You have my consent for that now. You have my respect for it then."
The answer landed with more weight than either of them expected.
Chris searched his face for a long moment, looking for the tells he'd learned over years in Arlo's orbit. The small shifts that meant he was lying, bluffing, hiding.
He didn't see them.
"Okay," Chris said quietly. "Then I'll hold you to it."
"Good," Arlo said. "Someone should."
A beat passed.
"You know," Chris added, tone roughening, "part of me wants to just… take her. Walk away. Change names again. Find some small town where the worst thing she has to worry about is running out of coffee filters."
Arlo's throat worked. "You could try," he said.
"I thought about it," Chris said. "When she was unconscious. When you were on the phone. I thought about throwing her in a car and driving until your people were just a rumor I'd made up to scare myself."
"Why didn't you?" Arlo asked.
Chris's lips twisted. "Because I know how this works," he said. "There is no town you can't find if you really want to. There's no paper trail you can't reconstruct if you need leverage. And because she'd never forgive me for ripping the choice away."
Something like pride flickered in Arlo's eyes. "She hates being handled," he said.
"She hates being lied to," Chris corrected.
"Both," Arlo conceded.
"And because," Chris added, voice dropping, "she chose you. At least for now. And as much as that terrifies me, it matters. I don't have the right to override that just because I was there first on a birth certificate she hasn't seen."
The words hung between them, heavy with the secret only they shared.
Arlo's gaze softened. "You're a better man than I deserve," he said.
"I'm not doing it for you," Chris said.
"I know," Arlo replied. "That's what makes it sting."
Footsteps sounded in the hall,lighter, familiar.
Conversation snapped off like someone had thrown a switch.
Ariel appeared in the doorway a moment later, damp hair braided to one side, clean shirt hanging loosely, bandage hidden. She held her coffee mug with both hands, fingers wrapped around the warmth.
Her eyes flicked between them, reading the charged air instantly.
"You two look like you're about to duel with spoons," she said.
"We were discussing kale," Arlo said smoothly.
Chris snorted. "He thinks it's a conspiracy," he said. "Mara agrees."
"Because it is," Arlo said, unbothered.
Some of the tension bled out of the room at the familiarity of the banter.
Ariel stepped farther in, favoring her good side. Chris automatically shifted to make space for her at the table. Arlo shifted too, just a fraction, opening his stance so she could slide into the triangle without feeling hemmed in.
She did, pulling out a chair and sinking into it with a soft exhale.
As she blew on her coffee, eyes tracking the rising steam, she didn't notice the quick look that passed over her head:
Chris's warning, still present but tempered.
Arlo's acknowledgement, caged and real.
They had drawn a line.
It wasn't neat. It wasn't simple. It would be tested.
But as Ariel lifted her mug and took a careful sip, wincing when it was hotter than she expected, both men adjusted,subtly, instinctively,to that new boundary:
The girl at the center of this storm was not a battleground.
Not between them.
Not anymore.
Mara's threat turned into a plan before Ariel could protest.
"You can't live in borrowed hoodies forever," Mara said, rinsing her coffee mug. "Johnson's accountants will start sending you itemized invoices."
"I like hoodies," Ariel muttered.
"You'll like clean underwear more," Mara replied. "There's a small store four blocks down. Quiet. Weekday mid‑morning. We go, we grab basics, we come back. No detours, no lingering."
Arlo frowned. "Too exposed."
"Too necessary," Mara shot back. "Unless you want to personally hand‑wash the same T‑shirt for her every night."
He didn't argue further, but his jaw set.
"I'll go with them," Chris said immediately.
"Obviously," Mara said. "You think I'm taking her window‑shopping alone? I'm good, I'm not suicidal."
Arlo's gaze slid to Ariel. "You up for it?" he asked. "If you're not, we find another way."
She thought of the four walls of the safe house, of the smell of antiseptic and coffee and ghosts. Of Berry's voice looping in her head. Of the way the world had narrowed to rooms other people owned.
"I want out," she said. "Even if it's just for socks."
"Fine," Arlo said, though the word sounded like it pained him. "You take the gray SUV. Park in front. No back alleys. No splitting up. If anything feels off—"
"We leave," Mara finished. "We know the drill, boss. Try not to chew through your own fingernails while we're gone."
He didn't smile.
Ten minutes later, Ariel was eased into the passenger seat, belt fastened with care, Mara behind the wheel. Chris took the back seat directly behind Ariel, eyes on the mirrors, posture relaxed enough to not alarm her, wired enough to move fast if he had to.
The city looked different through the glass.
Ordinary.
People walked dogs, carried grocery bags, argued into phones. A cyclist wove between cars with practiced annoyance. A woman pushed a stroller, humming something Ariel couldn't hear.
None of them knew that a girl in a borrowed shirt, with fresh stitches under her ribs and a storm under her skin, was watching them like they were a movie from another world.
The small clothing store sat on the corner of a quiet street,big windows, mannequins in comfortable jeans and sweaters, a bell over the door that jangled cheerfully when Mara pushed it open.
Ariel flinched at the sound.
"Different bell," Mara said softly. "Different door."
Ariel nodded once.
"Take your time," Chris said from behind them. "I'll lurk near the changing rooms like a creep."
"That's reassuring," Ariel said.
Inside, the store smelled like cotton and fabric softener. Racks of clothes stood in neat rows,nothing fancy, just practical. Soft leggings, basic tees, a wall of underwear in neutral colors.
For a moment, Ariel just stood there, overwhelmed by the rows of choice. Ordinary life, lined up on hangers.
"Start with this," Mara said briskly, grabbing a basket and pressing it into her hands. "Three shirts, two joggers, actual pajamas, underwear, socks. Nothing with sequins. I'm not resetting your wound because you decided to dress like a disco ball."
Ariel's lips twitched. "You're very opinionated for a doctor."
"It's why I'm good," Mara said.
They moved through the aisles together,Mara holding things up against Ariel's frame, Ariel shaking her head or nodding, making small, tired jokes about patterns. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A bored song played from speakers near the ceiling, some forgettable pop track about summer and hearts.
Each tiny decision,gray or blue, v‑neck or crew,felt strangely monumental. A reclaiming of self, thread by thread.
Chris stayed close but out of the way, drifting between endcaps, eyes scanning reflections in the window glass, the door, the corners. To anyone watching, he looked like a mildly impatient boyfriend or brother dragged on a shopping trip.
On the inside, he wasn't in the store at all.
He was back in a dim office years earlier, a thin file in his hands.
He'd been twenty‑one, fresh out of a job that had left more scars than paychecks, when Arlo had tossed the folder onto the table.
"Before you say yes," Arlo had said, "you should know what you're actually signing up for."
The tab on the file had her name.
Not the one she used now. The one from before, the one that had been wiped off some records and misspelled on others. He'd opened it with hands that hadn't trembled in years.
Photos. Grainy at first,hospital records, a car wreck, a police report with blacked‑out lines.
Then clearer.
A girl on a playground, maybe seven, hair in two uneven braids, concentrating fiercely on a book bigger than her face. Same eyes. Same tilt to her mouth when she frowned.
Ariel.
"I didn't—" Chris had swallowed, the word sticking. "I thought she died."
"She didn't," Arlo had said. No sympathy, just fact. "Your parents did. The couple who took you both in kept you. Someone else took her. Paperwork got messy. Accidents happened. You ended up here. She ended up there."
"Where," Chris had asked, voice hollow.
"Here now," Arlo had said, flipping to the last page. "Three blocks from your old house. Running a bookshop like it's a cathedral."
He'd stared at the address. At the tiny, printed name over the photo of a storefront with daffodils in the window.
"You knew," Chris had said. "How long."
"Long enough," Arlo had replied.
He'd been angry then. Furious that someone else had known his sister was alive before he did. Furious that the first time he was seeing her face in years was in a manila folder instead of across a kitchen table.
"You want to walk away, walk," Arlo had said. "But if you say yes to this job, you say yes to knowing that if anything touches her, it goes through me first."
He'd said yes.
He'd told himself it was because of the money, the structure, the thrill. But beneath all that was the simple, aching fact:
He had a sister.
The first time he saw her in person, he'd stayed across the street.
He'd watched her through the big front window of the shop,standing on a step stool to reach a high shelf, laughing with an older woman, sliding a book into a paper bag with reverence.
He hadn't gone in.
His hands had shaken in his pockets.
For weeks after that, he'd made excuses to walk past. Different times of day. Different angles. Sometimes she was there; sometimes she wasn't. When she was, he memorized the way she moved, the way she tilted her head when she listened, the way she hugged people with her whole body.
He'd told himself he was being smart. That barging in and saying, Hi, I'm the brother you don't remember, also I work for a man who would terrify you, would do more harm than good.
He'd watched instead.
He'd watched her walk home some nights, keeping to the opposite side of the street, making sure no one followed too close.
He'd watched her turn people away gently when they made her uncomfortable.
He'd watched Harry show up.
At first, he'd been relieved.
Someone else to walk her to the bus stop. Someone to change the lightbulbs and fix the squeaky door and stand beside her behind the counter.
Someone who seemed to care.
He'd seen them lock up together, laughing. Seen Harry pull her into a spinning hug when the "Open" sign flipped to "Closed" after their first year. Seen Berry fold into the picture, bright and sharp, arm around Ariel's shoulders as they posed for a selfie outside the painted window.
He'd told himself she was safe.
That whatever world he walked in now, she was at least on a parallel street, untouched.
He hadn't seen,the way Harry's hand sometimes tightened too hard on her wrist when she tried to carry a box herself. The way his face changed when she turned away. The way Berry's smile dimmed when certain customers came in.
He should have.
He was trained to.
Back in the store now, he watched Ariel hold up two shirts to a mirror, considering. Mara said something that made her roll her eyes and pick the softer one. The bell over the door jingled faintly as someone else came in and drifted to the other side of the shop.
Chris's grip on the end of the clothes rack tightened.
He saw, overlayed on the present, all the times he'd stood this close and convinced himself distance was safety.
He'd known she was being watched.
He hadn't known she was being used.
He thought of the recordings. Of Harry's voice: She's been bait from the start.
He thought of Berry's: Then just… kill her.
He should have seen it. The patterns. The drops. The way certain faces showed up in Arlo's files and in the shop window.
He had all the pieces. He never put them together.
"Hey."
Mara's voice cut through the spiral.
He blinked, realizing she'd appeared at his elbow, a stack of folded clothes in her arms and a knowing look in her eyes.
"You're doing the thing," she said quietly.
"What thing," he asked, even though he knew.
"The thing where you stand in the middle of a perfectly ordinary store and blame yourself for entire universes collapsing," she said. "It's annoying. And unhelpful."
He huffed out a breath. "You heard the recordings," he said. "I had eyes on her for years. I still missed it."
"You had eyes on a girl who smiled when she shelved romance novels," Mara said. "Not on the backroom deals two layers removed. Harry and Berry both went out of their way to keep that part away from her. From most people."
"I'm 'most people' now?" he asked.
"In this context?" she said. "Yes. You saw what they wanted you to see. Same as she did."
"I should have dug," he said. "Looked harder. Asked why certain nights she closed early. Why certain cars lingered too long at the curb."
"And if you had?" Mara asked. "What then? You'd have what you have now—proof that Harry was using her. And back then, you didn't have this house. Or this leverage. Or her trust. You had a file and a paycheck and a sister who didn't know your face. What would you have done, Chris? Kicked in her door and announced that the man she was building a life with was dirty?"
"Yes," he said, too fast.
Mara's brow rose. "And then?" she asked. "She kicks you out. Or she believes you and runs. Either way, Harry panics, Johnson reacts, and you're sitting in a different safe house listening to a different recording of her screaming."
The worst part was, she wasn't wrong.
"It doesn't absolve me," he said.
"It doesn't need to," Mara said. "This isn't about absolution. It's about not making her grief about you."
He flinched.
"Harsh," he said.
"Accurate," she replied.soulsoothe
Across the store, Ariel turned, holding up a pair of soft flannel pants. "Too grandma?" she called.
Mara raised her voice. "Just enough grandma," she said. "You're not seducing anyone with your sleepwear, you're healing."
Ariel snorted and tossed them into the basket.
She caught Chris's eye then, briefly.
He rearranged his face before she got a good read,flattened the guilt, tucked the regret back where it lived, behind the parts of him she leaned on.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded. "Just trying to decide if those socks are a cry for help," he said, nodding toward the neon‑striped ones she'd grabbed.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
Normal. Or a close imitation.
Mara nudged him with her hip. "You want to make it right?" she said, under her breath. "Stop looking backward. Look at her now. Her tells. Her limits. Her triggers. Make sure the next time someone decides she's bait, they meet you first."
"They already did," he said.
"Well," Mara said. "Meet them harder."
He almost smiled at that.
At the counter, Ariel set the basket down. The clerk, a woman in her forties with tired eyes and a polite smile, started ringing items up.
"How's your day going?" the woman asked, the automatic question of retail small talk.
Ariel opened her mouth,to say fine, or okay, or some other lie.
"Complicated," she said instead.
The woman blinked, then surprised them both by huffing a quiet laugh. "Aren't they all," she said. "That'll be thirty‑two eighty."
Chris stepped forward automatically, card already between his fingers.
"Put it on—" he began.
"I've got it," Ariel said, quickly.
He hesitated. "You don't—"
"I need to pay for something that's mine," she said softly, so only he and Mara could hear. "With money that isn't his. Or yours. Just… mine."
He swallowed. "Okay," he said, stepping back.
She dug for her wallet,a cheap thing with worn edges, the one piece of her old life that had made it out of the shop with her. There wasn't much inside; that would change, if he and Arlo had anything to say about it. But there was enough.
She slid cash across the counter.
A small, ordinary transaction.
It felt huge.
On the walk back, Mara took the bags, insisting Ariel shouldn't be lifting yet. Ariel didn't argue. The morning air was cool against her face, the sky a washed‑out blue. A dog barked somewhere; a bus hissed as it pulled away from a stop.
Chris walked half a step behind, eyes moving, mind split between possible threats and the reel of memories that had started earlier.
Watching her from across the street. Telling himself distance was love. Telling himself that staying in the shadows was protection.
He knew better now.
Now, protection looked like this: walking close enough that if someone reached for her, they'd hit him first. Listening when she said I need to pay for this myself. Stepping back when she chose Arlo's bed and stepping forward when Arlo's choices might hurt her.
Regret still sat heavy in his ribs.
But as Ariel stumbled slightly over a crack in the pavement and instinctively reached back, fingers brushing his forearm, he realized something:
He couldn't rewrite the years he'd missed.
He could write this step.
And the next.
And the part where, when the storm finally broke over all of them, he would stand there—between her and the worst of it,not as a ghost watching from across the street, but as what he'd always been, whether she knew it yet or not:
Her brother.
Even if, for now, that word had to live only on his tongue and in the way he walked at her back.
When they got back, the safe house felt less like a cage and more like a bunker they'd chosen.
Mara herded Ariel straight to the couch, ignoring her protests. "Shoes off," she ordered. "Legs up. You walked four blocks and emotionally confronted a sock wall. That's enough heroics for the morning."
Ariel sank back, easing herself down carefully. Her side tugged, but not as sharply as before. The shopping bags sat at her feet like quiet evidence that some piece of normal life still existed.
Chris disappeared to stash the SUV keys, then returned with three glasses of water balanced in one hand. He set one in front of Ariel without comment, then slid into the armchair opposite.
Arlo was already waiting in the corner, the recorder on the coffee table, a stack of printouts neatly aligned beside it. His gaze did a quick sweep,Mara's flushed cheeks, Ariel's careful movements, Chris's keyed‑up shoulders,before he relaxed a notch.
"Any trouble?" he asked.
"Unless you count a sale rack as an attack," Mara said, dropping onto the other end of the couch. "No. Your city survived our brief presence."
"Good," he said. His eyes lingered on Ariel. "How's the pain?"
"Tolerable," she said. "Mara bribed it with retail."
"Medicine comes in many forms," Mara said primly.
Arlo reached for the recorder, then paused. "We don't have to go back in yet," he said. "You're allowed to breathe a little longer."
Ariel looked at the small black device. The numbness from earlier had settled into a low, constant ache, like a bruise pressed under her ribs.
"If I keep stopping," she said quietly, "I'm never going to get through them. And I can't… I can't have half‑truths hanging over me. Not anymore."
Chris shifted, jaw tightening, but he didn't argue.
Mara nudged her knee gently. "We set a limit," she said. "Two recordings. Three, max. Then we stop, whether you like it or not. Or I start sedating people at random."
"Threatening your patients is unethical," Ariel muttered.
"Effective, though," Mara said.
They settled into positions that had already started to feel habitual: Ariel on the couch with a cushion behind her back, Mara beside her, one leg tucked under her; Chris in the chair angled slightly toward Ariel, within reach but not looming; Arlo in the other chair, close enough to see every flicker of emotion on her face, far enough to honor the space she'd claimed.
He pressed play.
The next voices were colder. Buyers, mostly. Men with clipped accents and numbers on their tongues. They talked about quantities, timelines, trust like it was a commodity. Harry's name came up. Ariel's shop did too, but more as coordinates than as a place.
"This one," Arlo said at a pause, nodding to a higher‑pitched voice, "ran a front out of a pharmacy three streets over. He's gone. Relocated in a hurry after Reed's last visit."
"Relocated," Ariel echoed. "That your word for…?"
"He's breathing," Arlo said. "Just not here."
"And this one?" she asked, when a woman's voice came on,smooth, cool, speaking about her like she was furniture.
"Writer of checks," Arlo said. "We'll get to her."
By the third recording, Ariel's shoulders had crept up toward her ears. Mara's hand found her knee, fingers resting there, grounding. Chris watched her face, not the device, flinching every time her mouth tightened or her eyes went distant.
"Enough," Mara said firmly, as Arlo's thumb hovered over the button again. "Her nervous system is fried. We stop."
Ariel opened her mouth.
"Don't," Mara added. "You can hate me later. You can fire me never. But right now, you're done."
Ariel exhaled, some combination of frustration and relief. "Fine," she said. "Temporary truce."
Arlo powered the recorder fully off. "We pick up tomorrow," he said. "We won't run out of sins."
"Comforting," she said dryly.
Mara stood and clapped her hands once. "Break time," she announced. "Chris, you're on sandwich duty. She needs protein. Arlo, you—"
"Get out of the kitchen," Chris said. "You burn water."
"I was going to say 'hover somewhere else,'" Mara amended. "Yes."
Arlo pushed himself to his feet. "I need to make a call anyway," he said. "Fifteen minutes."
"Take twenty," Mara said. "You're pacing holes in my floor."
He left with his phone between two fingers, already scrolling.
Chris lingered a moment longer, watching Ariel pick at a loose thread on the cushion.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But I'm not less okay than ten minutes ago, so that's progress."
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. "I'll take it," he said. "You need anything?"
"A nap," she said. "And maybe a sign that says 'Do not disturb unless you're delivering coffee or ending a crime syndicate.'"
"I'll see what I can do," he said, then retreated toward the kitchen.
Mara waited until he was out of earshot, then nudged Ariel again. "Bathroom," she said. "Let's check your bandage before your grand nap. You twisted when that last voice came on; I saw it."
Ariel groaned. "I'm starting to hate that room."
"Join the club," Mara said. "Come on."
They shuffled down the hall together. Mara kept a loose hold near her elbow—not enough to make Ariel feel dragged, enough that if she stumbled, someone would be there.
In the bedroom, Mara pointed toward the dresser. "Grab one of the new shirts," she said. "You've earned the sensation of fabric that hasn't met my washing machine."
Ariel snorted and did as instructed, picking a soft, dark blue tee from the bag and setting it on the bed. Her current shirt was starting to feel clingy with dried sweat and hospital detergent.
"Change," Mara said. "I'll grab fresh tape."
She stepped into the hall to rummage through her bag, leaving the door mostly closed.
Ariel peeled her shirt off carefully, wincing when the hem snagged near the bandage. The bra underneath was plain and black,new from the store, soft against her skin. She let out a breath, relief at being out of the old shirt mixing with the familiar unease of bare skin in unfamiliar rooms.
She turned, reaching for the mirror to check the bandage—
The door opened.
"Ariel, I—"
Arlo stopped dead in the doorway.
For a split second, both of them froze.
She was half‑turned away from him, shirt in one hand, her back bare from shoulder blades to the band of her bra. The pale line of the healing incision at her side was visible, along with older, fainter marks,scrapes, bruises in various stages of yellowing.
Heat flooded her face. "Arlo—"
"I didn't know Mara had left—" he started at the same time. "I'll—"
He began to step back, hand already reaching for the knob.
Then he saw it.
Not the fresh, clean line of Mara's stitches.
Higher. Just below her left shoulder blade.
A thin, straight cut. Too precise for a random scrape. The skin around it was faintly raised, a tiny ridge under the surface.
He went very still.
"Don't move," he said, voice low and sharper than he meant.
Ariel stiffened. "What?"
He stepped back into the room, door half‑open, and crossed the space between them in three strides. His hand lifted, stopping a breath away from her back.
"May I?" he asked, the courtesy at odds with the tension in him.
She swallowed. "You already walked in on me half‑naked," she muttered. "Might as well commit."
He huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Fair," he said.
His fingers touched the mark.
Barely.
Just the pads, light as feathers.
Ariel flinched, a gasp catching in her throat. Not from pain,the touch was gentle,but from the shock of it, the intimacy of someone's hand there, the surprise of sensation along tissue she hadn't even known was sensitive.
"Sorry," he murmured. "I'll be quick."
Her first instinct was to turn, to face him, to pull away from the vulnerability of having her back exposed.
"Stop," he said quietly. "Just for a second."
The word wasn't a command this time. It was a request wrapped in urgency.
She froze.
He leaned in, eyes narrowing as he examined the line. It wasn't wide. It wasn't angry red. It looked… deliberate. A thin, almost surgical cut, slightly swollen around the edges.
"This wasn't Mara," he said under his breath.
"No," Ariel said. "She swears she doesn't do decorative scars."
"Did she see this?" he asked.
"She saw the big one," Ariel said. "I don't know about that. I didn't… I don't look at my back often, Arlo. Kind of hard without acrobatics."
Up close, he could see the faint outline of something under the skin. Not just scar tissue. A tiny, raised shape, harder than the flesh around it.
Cold slid through him.
He pressed a fraction more firmly around the edges, feeling for give. The shape didn't shift.
"Arlo?" Ariel asked, voice tightening. "You're freaking me out."
"There's something in your body," he said, the words tasting wrong even as he spoke them. "Under this cut."
He took his hand away and stepped back a pace, eyes flicking to the door.
"Mara!" he shouted.
His voice cracked down the hallway.
In the kitchen, Mara and Chris both jerked.
"What did you do?" Mara called back, already moving.
"Probably touched something he shouldn't," Chris muttered, following.
They hit the doorway together.
Mara took in the scene in a flash,Ariel standing in the middle of the room, shirt off, arms wrapped instinctively around her front; Arlo a step behind her, tension coiled; the faint line on Ariel's back still pink from his recent touch.
Chris's eyes went wide. "What the—" He spun on his heel, throwing an arm over his face. "Are you kidding me? Close the door, Johnson."
"It's not that," Arlo snapped. "There's something in her back. Under the skin."
Chris froze mid‑turn. "What?"
"Mara," Arlo said, ignoring him. "Look. Just below the shoulder blade."
Mara's frown deepened. "Ariel?" she said, tone gentler now. "Can I…?"
Ariel hugged herself tighter. "Everyone's very interested in my spine all of a sudden," she muttered. Her face burned.
Mara moved closer, professionally unbothered. "I've seen worse," she said. "Births, bullet extractions, Arlo's idea of a bandage. You're fine. Turn."
With a muttered curse under her breath, Ariel turned her back fully to them, staring hard at the wardrobe instead of the people behind her.
Chris kept his eyes squeezed shut, face angled away. "Can someone tell me when it's safe to look at things that won't get me murdered by the part of my brain that remembers she's—" He cut himself off, jaw snapping shut.
Mara's fingers replaced Arlo's, pressing gently around the thin line. "Huh," she said.
"Huh?" Ariel repeated, alarm spiking. "What do you mean, 'huh'? That's not a comforting doctor noise."
"This is not an old scar," Mara said, voice shifting into clinical. "Edges are too neat. Little bit of swelling." Her touch moved, mapping the shape. "And there's definitely something under there. Hard. Small. About the size of… a pill. Or a grain of rice."
Chris swore under his breath. "Tell me you're not saying what I think you're saying."
"Looks like a device," Mara said. "Subcutaneous. Someone went in shallow and left something behind."
"A device?" Ariel turned halfway, then stopped, arms clamping tighter around her chest. "As in… what, a bug? A tracker?"
"Both possible," Mara said. "Depends how fancy their toys are."
Cold washed through Ariel so fast she felt dizzy. "In my body?" she demanded. "Someone put something in me and nobody noticed?"
"Obviously they did a good job hiding it," Mara said, still palpating carefully. "This isn't standard ER work. This is… quiet."
"When?" Chris asked, voice gone flat. "The warehouse?"
"Mara didn't open her back there," Arlo said. "Just front."
"Clinic?" Chris pressed.
Mara shook her head, even though he couldn't see it. "I'd have seen it," she said. "Even if I wasn't looking for it. The tissue around it is too fresh. I didn't cut this. Which means somebody else did, recently."
Ariel's stomach turned. "You're saying after the chair. After the clinic. After I woke up. Someone… opened me again?"
"Not necessarily," Mara said. "Could have been before. But the healing says days, not years. Weeks at most."
"Harry," Chris said grimly. "Or one of his people."
"Harry doesn't have hands this neat," Arlo said, eyes dark. "He hires them. Or his buyer does."
"Can you take it out?" Ariel asked, voice thin. "Now. Please. Whatever it is, I want it gone."
Mara hesitated.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I can. But not in five minutes with you standing in the middle of the room and Chris having an existential crisis by the door. I need tools. Local anesthetic. Sterile field. And we need to decide where we do this. Here is doable. Hospital is a security risk."
"Hospital is a no," Arlo said immediately.
"Here, then," Mara said. "Soon. The longer that thing sits there, the more it itches at me."
"Not just you," Chris muttered.
He still hadn't opened his eyes.
Ariel let out a shaky breath. "Okay," she said. "Fine. Cut it out. Whatever. Just… can everyone stop looking at my back like it's a crime scene?"
"It is a crime scene," Mara said. "Someone invaded your body without consent. I get grumpy about that."
"Get grumpy with a scalpel later," Ariel said. "Right now, I'd like my shirt."
Mara squeezed her shoulder gently. "Turn around," she said. "Slowly. I'll block their view. Boys, eyes anywhere but below her collarbone or I start throwing sharp things."
Chris obediently turned fully to the wall, one hand still half‑covering his face.
"I'm not twelve," he grumbled.
"You're behaving like it," Mara shot back.
Arlo looked away deliberately, jaw tight, and stepped toward the door, hand on the frame like he needed the anchor.
Behind Mara's shield, Ariel yanked the new shirt over her head, wincing as the cotton brushed the sore spots. The fabric fell into place, armor thin as cloth.
"Okay," she said. "Decency restored. You can look now."
Chris turned back first, gaze snapping straight to her face and nowhere else. His eyes were murder‑dark. "We're finding out who did that," he said. "And we're making sure they never put anything in anyone again."
"That's the plan," Arlo said.
He met Ariel's eyes then. There was something in his expression she hadn't seen before—fear, threaded through the anger. Not the fear of losing a pawn. The fear of realizing someone had gotten closer to her than he had, inside her skin, without his knowledge.
"We'll get it out," he said, voice low but steady. "Whatever it is. They don't get to listen in on you anymore. Not your voice. Not your heartbeat. Not your sleep."
Ariel swallowed. "You think they heard… the recordings?" she asked. "Me. You. All of it."
Arlo's jaw clenched. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. Either way, the line ended when you walked into this house. We'll make sure of it."
Mara squeezed Ariel's shoulder again, then let go. "I'll set up in the small room downstairs," she said. "Neutral ground. Good light. Chris, you're my gopher. Arlo, you hover somewhere that isn't in my peripheral vision while I'm cutting."
"I want to be there," Ariel said quickly.
"You will be," Mara said. "Front and center. It's your back, after all. The more you see, the less your brain fills in with monsters."
Ariel managed a thin smile. "Too late on the monsters," she said. "But… okay."
As Mara and Chris left to gather supplies, Arlo lingered in the doorway a moment longer.
"You all right?" he asked quietly.
"No," she said. "Again. Still."
He nodded once. "We'll fix this part," he said. "One cut at a time."
She forced a breath in. "You keep saying 'we,'" she said. "Like I'm not the one being sliced open."
"You're the center of the equation," he said. "We're just… the idiots with calculators."
Despite everything, a short, incredulous laugh escaped her. It hurt. It also helped.
"Go," she said. "Before Mara decides to practice on you first."
He gave a small, almost reluctant smile, then stepped back into the hall.
As he went, he reached for his phone—not to make another call this time, but to switch it off entirely.
Whoever had thought they could hide a device in Ariel's skin and listen in without consequence had miscalculated.
The next time a voice came through a recorder in this house, it would be one of theirs—
and it would be screaming.
Mara turned the smallest downstairs room into a makeshift clinic.
A narrow table had been dragged to the center and covered with crisp white sheets. A tray of instruments sat beside it,scalpel, forceps, sterile gauze, a small syringe already filled with clear liquid. The air smelled like alcohol wipes and something lemony from the cleaning spray Mara insisted on.
"Up," she told Ariel gently. "Face down. Shirt off. Bra stays. I'm not that kind of doctor."
Ariel huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn't shaken. "You keep saying that," she muttered, fingers fumbling at the hem of her shirt.
"Repetition builds trust," Mara said. "And compliance. My two favorite things."
The table's paper crinkled under Ariel's weight as she lay down, cheek turned to one side so she could see the wall. The coolness of the sheet against her bare stomach made her shiver. She felt exposed in a way the warehouse never had,less because of skin, more because of the knowledge that someone had used her body as storage without her knowing.
Mara snapped on gloves with a soft snap. "I'm going to clean the area and inject local," she said. "It'll sting like a bee with anger issues for ten seconds, then go numb. You'll feel pressure, maybe tugging. You shouldn't feel sharp pain. If you do, you yell at me."
"Yelling is one of my new skills," Ariel said into the paper.
"Excellent," Mara replied.
Cool antiseptic swiped over the spot on her back, making the skin prickle. Then the needle.
The sting was worse than she expected,hot, invasive, like fire under the surface. Her fingers clenched in the sheet. A hiss slipped between her teeth.
"Breathe," Mara said quietly. "In. Out. Count if you need to."
"One," Ariel grated. "Two. Three…"
By ten, the sharp burn had dulled into a heavy, spreading numbness.
"Still with me?" Mara asked.
"Unfortunately," Ariel said.
Mara's gloved fingers pressed lightly around the area. "Feel this?" she asked.
"Pressure," Ariel said. "No knives."
"That's the goal," Mara said. "Okay. Tiny cut. Then we go fishing."
The first slice was more sensation than pain,a tug, the odd awareness of skin parting without the usual burn to go with it. Ariel's breath hitched anyway. Her mind supplied phantom pain where her nerves didn't.
Metal clicked softly.
Outside in the hallway, Arlo and Chris waited.
They stood on opposite sides of the door, as if some unspoken rule forbade either of them from blocking the other's path to it. The muffled sounds inside,Mara's low instructions, the rustle of paper, the occasional scrape of metal—seeped through the wood.
Chris had his back to the wall, one foot braced, arms folded so tight across his chest his forearms ached. His jaw worked on nothing.
Arlo leaned with one hand on the doorframe, head bowed slightly. His phone was in his other hand, dark and forgotten. Every few seconds, his fingers flexed against the wood, like he was resisting the urge to rip it open.
"She'll be fine," Arlo said, more to the door than to Chris.
"Stop saying that," Chris replied. "You don't know."
Inside, Mara's voice floated through, muffled but steady. "You're doing great," she told Ariel. "Tiny bit more pressure. If you faint, I'll draw eyebrows on you before you wake up."
"Rude," Ariel muttered. Her voice shook.
Chris flinched.
"She's talking," Arlo said. "That's good."
"Talking doesn't mean she's not in pain," Chris snapped. "You above everyone should know that."
Arlo didn't answer. He stared at the door as if he could see through it.
Mara made a small, satisfied sound. "There it is," she murmured. "Little bastard. Hold still, Ari."
Ariel felt the tug deepen. It wasn't exactly pain,not sharp,but it was pressure so intense it curled deep into muscle, triggering a primal panic her rational mind couldn't quite soothe.
Her fingers dug harder into the sheet.
"Wait," she gasped. "Wait—"
"I know," Mara said. "Almost there. You want me to stop?"
Ariel's lungs stuttered. Part of her wanted to scream yes, to tell her to close it up, to pretend nothing was there.
"No," she managed. "Just… say something. Distract me."
Mara huffed. "Okay," she said. "Fun fact: I once pulled a sim card out of a guy's thigh because he thought his pockets were too obvious. You're officially less weird than that."citymedicalcentre
Ariel choked on a laugh that turned into a half‑sob. The movement jolted her back.
Pain sliced through the numbness like lightning.
She screamed.
The sound knifed straight through the door.
Chris's body snapped off the wall like he'd been hit. "That's it," he said, lunging for the handle.
Arlo's hand shot out, slamming against the wood just above it. "Wait."
"She's screaming," Chris snarled. His voice sounded wrong in his own ears,too raw, too close to the one he hadn't used since a hospital corridor years ago. "I'm not standing out here while—"
"Chris," Arlo said, sharp. "Think. Mara's cutting her. You burst in, you'll jolt her hand. You want that blade going deeper?"
Chris's fingers dug into the knob, knuckles white.
Another sound from inside,not the full‑body scream this time, but a broken, high noise that punched straight through his ribs.
He saw red for a second.
"Chris," Mara's voice called, strained but controlled. "Do not open that door. I've got her."
"You sure?" he shouted back, voice cracking. "Because it doesn't sound like—"
"I know what 'too much' sounds like," Mara cut in. "We're not there. Back off."
His chest heaved.
"Let her do it," Arlo said, quieter now. "If you go in like this, you'll scare Ariel worse. She needs one person with a steady hand right now. That's not you."
"I'm fine," Chris ground out.
"You're shaking," Arlo said. "And you're about two seconds from breaking something you can't fix."
Chris looked down at his hands. They were trembling.
Inside, the paper crinkled under Ariel as she shifted, breath hitching.
"It hurts," she gasped. "Mara—"
"I know," Mara said, voice softer now, closer. "I know, Ari. One more second. Scream if you need to. I won't take it personally."
Something in the way she said Ari,unforced, familiar,cut through the rising panic.
Ariel sucked in a breath, eyes squeezed shut against the burn. "Do it," she whispered.
Mara's fingers moved with swift, practiced precision. The pressure spiked, then released.
"Got you," she said. "It's out."
Relief crashed through Ariel so sharply it almost hurt more than the cut. Her muscles unlocked all at once, leaving her limp on the table.
Outside, Chris sagged against the wall, one hand still clutching the knob, the urge to rip the door open warring with the knowledge that it was done.
"Is she—" his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Is she okay?"
There was a pause, the rustle of gauze, the soft clink of something hard hitting metal.
"She's breathing," Mara called back. "Complaining. Swearing at me. All good signs."
"I didn't swear," Ariel protested weakly.
"You did internally," Mara said. "I could hear it."
Chris huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so wet at the edges. He dashed a hand over his eyes and hoped Arlo wasn't watching closely.
He was.
Arlo's own throat felt tight. He'd heard screams before,caused them, even. They usually turned something dark and satisfied in him, a confirmation of control.
This one made his hands feel useless.
"Softness is going to kill me," he muttered.
"It's about time something did," Chris said hoarsely.
The door opened a crack. Mara's face appeared, slightly sweaty, eyes bright.
"You two look like condemned men," she said. "Relax. It's out. She's numb, stitched, and currently glaring at me like I ruined her favorite shirt."
"Let me see," Arlo said.
"Bandage only," Mara warned. "You two have seen enough of her back for today."
They stepped inside.
Ariel was still on her stomach, cheek turned toward the wall, hair stuck damply to her temple. A fresh dressing covered the spot under her shoulder blade, edges neat, a faint smear of dried blood visible at the edge of the tape. Her hands were curled loosely near her head now, fingers less clawed.
Her eyes found Chris first.
"I'm fine," she croaked, before he could ask. "Don't break anything."
His chest twisted. "You screamed," he said.
"Yeah," she said. "Apparently I'm good at it."
"You scared me," he said, the confession dragging itself out.
"Good," she muttered. "We're even."
He let out a shaky breath, some of the tightness leaving his shoulders.
Arlo moved closer to the tray where Mara had set a small steel dish. In the center of it, cleaned of blood, lay something that looked eerily ordinary: a tiny, oval device, about the size of a grain of rice, encased in dull gray.
"Tracker," he said, voice flat. "And probably a recorder. Combination unit."clevelandclinic+1
"Can they still hear us?" Ariel asked, words muffled by the table.
"Not from this," Mara said. "I killed it the second it came out."
"How do you know?" Chris asked.
Mara gave him a look. "Because I'm not an intern," she said. "And because Johnson here pays for the good stuff. I recognize the make. They short out when they hit air."
Arlo's jaw flexed. "Buyer's level tech," he said. "Harry couldn't afford this on his own."
"So someone else wanted to listen to her breathing while she slept," Chris said, voice going dark. "Great."
Ariel's fingers curled in the paper again. "Can we not talk about strangers listening to me sleep while I'm half‑naked on a table?" she said. "I'm having a vulnerability quota day."
Mara smiled faintly. "Fair," she said. "Okay. Everyone out. She needs rest. I need to write angry notes in my head about whoever did this."
"I can stay," Chris said.
"And glower her into a stress headache?" Mara replied. "Out. Ten minutes. Then you can sit on the floor and watch her breathe like a normal overprotective… whatever you are."
He didn't argue. Much.
As they filed back into the hall, Ariel called, "Arlo."
He paused, hand on the doorframe, and looked back.
"Yeah?"
She lifted her head enough to meet his eyes. "You barged in on me changing," she said. "We're having a conversation about that later."
His mouth twitched. "Looking forward to it," he said.
Her gaze softened for a heartbeat. "Thank you," she added quietly. "For… seeing it. Before I did."
He inclined his head once, something like a vow in the gesture. "I won't miss anything else someone tries to hide in you," he said.
"Good," she said. "I'm running out of space."
He managed a faint huff of amusement, then followed Chris down the hall.
They ended up back in the small sitting room, the one with the narrow view of the street. Chris dropped into the chair with less grace than usual, elbows on his knees, hands laced tight.
Arlo remained standing for a moment, then sat too, opposite him.
"Softness is killing you, huh," Chris said after a long beat, echoing Arlo's earlier mutter.
Arlo stared at his hands. "I don't know what to do with it," he admitted. "The screaming, the… trusting. The way she looks at me like I'm not just the sum of the worst things I've done. It makes everything else I am feel…" He searched for the word. "Smaller."jennamoreci+1
"That's called perspective," Chris said. "Most people get it in childhood. You're late."
"I never had much use for it," Arlo said. "Until she walked into my office with daffodils on her arms and asked why the world had to hurt to be real."
Chris was quiet for a moment.
"It hurts me too," he said, surprising himself. "When she screams like that. Feels like… like being back in that hospital. Listening to her cry through a door I wasn't allowed to open."
Arlo looked up, something like understanding in his eyes. "You didn't have a choice then," he said. "You do now."
"I know," Chris said. "That's the worst part. Every time she hurts, I think, 'If I'd done something different two years ago, would this be happening?' It's pointless, but it's there."
"That's called guilt," Arlo said dryly. "Welcome to the club. Dues are steep."
Chris huffed a humorless breath. "You're doing it too," he said. "You heard her scream and your first instinct was to stop me from breaking down the door, not because you don't care, but because you knew it would make it worse. That's…" He shook his head. "Not the Arlo I signed up to work for."
"Disappointed?" Arlo asked.
"Confused," Chris said. "She's… changing you."
Arlo thought of her head on his shoulder in the dark. Of the way her fingers had brushed his cheek and the way he'd frozen, more undone by that small act than by a gun pointed at his chest.
"I don't know if that's good for her," he said honestly. "Having that much pull on someone like me."
"Maybe it's not about good or bad," Chris said. "Maybe it's about the fact that for the first time, when you heard someone scream, your first thought wasn't 'control' or 'damage' or 'leverage.' It was 'make it stop.' That counts for something."
Arlo considered that.
"I still want to make people pay," he said.
"Good," Chris replied. "So do I. But maybe now, you're doing it for the right reasons."
Arlo didn't answer.
Through the thin wall, they could hear Mara's low murmur and Ariel's quieter responses. No more screams. Just tired, slurred words and the occasional groan as Mara taped the dressing down.
Arlo stared at the wall as if he could see through it.
He'd lived a life measured in debts and blood, in power moves and calculated fear. Softness had never fit in that equation; it had been a weakness he crushed in others.
Now, it sat in the room down the hall,stitched and bandaged, stubborn and hurting, asking him to hold promises he'd never made before.
He had no idea how to carry it without breaking it.
But as Ariel's voice drifted faintly through,complaining about Mara's tape, making a weak joke about becoming a cyborg—something inside him shifted again.
Not a clean turn from dark to light.
A rebalancing.
The storm he'd always believed he controlled had met a different kind of weather—quieter, fiercer, made of softness that refused to be a weakness.
And for the first time, he found himself wanting, desperately, to be the kind of man who deserved to stand in it without destroying everything it touched.