Enjoy the festival, Leo, I say, my physical voice soft. But maybe move to the grass. The stones are cold this time of year.
The friction doesn't end with Silas.
At 1400 hours, the physical therapy room smells of crushed pine needles, damp earth, and the sharp, antiseptic tang of iodine. I am sitting on the edge of the examination table, my left arm resting in Margot’s capable hands. She is working the dense, fibrous scar tissue around my shoulder.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the room slide open.
Asher steps in. He is thirteen now, his shoulders broadening, his voice dropping into the awkward, cracking register of early adolescence. He is dressed in a simple, dark tactical tunic, his white-and-black hair cropped short. His mismatched eyes are wide, the geometric lattice in his silv
