The door opens just after sunset.
When I turn, I see Lukas standing in the front doorway. It’s like some sicko Frankenstein retelling, as if a mad scientist reached inside his chest cavity and scooped out everything that was keeping him upright, then shoved him back through the door to see if he could still stand on his own.
He’s older than I’ve ever seen him. Not in years, but in mileage. His suit is caked with mud from the knees down, his silver hair flattened on one side. He looks at me from across the kitchen, and whatever’s left of his composure dissolves. He looks a heartbeat away from collapse.
I don’t ask questions. I don’t ask if Kir is okay, or what happened, or what was said. I just leap off the stool and run across the cold tile in my bare feet and his borrowed jacket, close
