She came to the kitchen the morning after we returned.
Not my kitchen — the main one, the communal one, the one that had become the compound's true center over the months of the building story. She came in the way compound people came to kitchens when they had something to say — with purpose, with the specific quality of someone who has been deciding whether to speak and has finally decided yes.
I was at the range.
She sat at the island.
I put tea in front of her without asking.
She looked at the mug.
"There's something I didn't tell you at the tributary," she said.
I held still.
"I told you about Dena," she said. "The recording. The coalition. The plan." She held the mug. "I didn't tell you why I knew about it."
"I assumed you had been in her network," I said carefully.
"I was,"
