We don’t open the drive right away.
It sits on the kitchen counter between us like a dormant thing, small and unassuming, the kind of object that could be mistaken for nothing. A cheap piece of plastic and metal. Something you could lose in the bottom of a drawer. Something you could forget.
We don’t forget.
Damian washes his hands twice, methodically, like he is scrubbing more than just the day off his skin. Like he is trying to rinse away the café, the hacker’s eyes, the words that followed us home and lodged themselves somewhere deep. The water runs longer than necessary. When he dries his hands, he does it carefully, deliberately, as if control over small actions matters right now.
I pace.
Back and forth across the kitchen. Tile to rug. Rug to tile. I stop, then start again, the r
