Chapter 4 #2
Because now she’s upside down, looking down at me with sleepy eyes and flushed cheeks, and I'm once again distracted to the point of losing access to my expansive vocabulary.
“It’s not not coffin-like,” I say, clearing my throat. Then I add, “But it’s spatially efficient.”
She smirks. “There’s the weird little camp counselor energy again.”
I grin despite myself and look away, staring at the ceiling of my bunk instead. I feel my vocabulary return, and manage to mumble, “You’ll adjust.”
“You sound very confident.” She sits back up. Although she’s out of my sight, the whoosh of her hair leaves behind a whisper of a scent I want more of—a mix of pear and palo santo.
“I’ve logged over five hundred nights in this bunk configuration.”
There’s a pause.
“You absolutely know the exact number, don’t you?”
“…maybe.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I hold in a laugh, adjusting my pillow.
Quiet settles as Jax, Maya, and Taylor listen to whatever's on their headphones.
It’s the kind of quiet that only exists around people comfortable with each other—fabric rustling. Someone charging a phone. Taylor whisper-singing to herself for exactly thirty seconds before she passes out.
I’m just starting to drift when movement shifts overhead again. A muffled curse follows.
Then, THUNK. The ceiling above Daisy’s bunk rattles violently.
“Ow,” she hisses.
“Did you just headbutt the roof?” I whisper.
“No,” Daisy protests.
Another pause.
“Okay, yes.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard to stop smiling. “You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she whispers back.
“You sounded less fine a second ago.”
“I forgot I was sleeping inside a shoebox.”
“It’s not a shoebox. It’s spatially optimized.”
“You already said that, and it’s the nerdiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I settle deeper into my pillow, staring up at the underside of her bunk.
“You’ll learn the clearance eventually,” I say.
“Easy for you to say.”
I laugh a soundless laugh, like a mild case of the hiccups.
And for some reason, everything goes still after that.
Not due to awkwardness. Due to awareness.
Above me, I hear her shift.
“You laugh more than I expected,” she whispers into the dark.
The comment catches me off guard.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “More redneck, for sure. More intense, maybe.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Another soft laugh from above. Then quiet again.
Real quiet this time.
Somewhere in the middle of it, with the desert wind brushing softly against the outside of the Machine and Daisy Bennett breathing faintly one bunk above me, I realize I’m looking forward to tomorrow.
I wake before sunrise.
Years of fieldwork trained it into me. My body just knows.
The Machine is still dark and quiet as I climb carefully from my bunk, trying not to wake anyone.
I’m halfway through making coffee when another voice speaks behind me.
“You’re one of those people, too?”
I turn.
Daisy stands there in her sleep shorts and messy hair, looking softer without the sharp edge she usually wears so deliberately.
“One of what people?”
“The morning ones.”
“It’s five-thirty.”
“Exactly.”
I hide a smile by turning back toward the coffee maker. “You want some?”
She squints, her skepticism obvious. “How good is your coffee?”
“I make excellent coffee.”
“That was a very confident answer.”
“I did say I contain multitudes,” I remind her.
She snorts softly and slides onto the bench seat while I pour two cups.
The rest of the crew remains dead asleep as we sit there in the soft early morning light, sipping coffee in surprising peace.
Then Daisy glances toward the windshield, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Is that a diner?”
I follow her gaze toward the tiny roadside building across the lot.
“Yeah.”
“Please tell me it’s open.”
“I’m sure it is.”
She looks at me hopefully over the rim of her mug.
And for reasons I cannot explain, twenty minutes later we’re sitting across from each other in a tiny desert diner while an exhausted waitress refills our coffee.
The silence between us isn’t awkward.
Which feels weirder than awkwardness would.
Daisy scrolls her phone while I skim a local newspaper someone left behind at the counter.
Our breakfasts arrive at the same time.
Eggs. Toast. Potatoes.
I glance at her plate. Then at her.
“Huh.”
She looks up. “What?”
“I just expected you to order something more… LA.”
Her eyes narrow instantly. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t know. Avocado toast. Activated charcoal smoothie. Ethically sourced moon yogurt.”
She laughs despite herself. “Moon yogurt?”
“It sounds like something you people would eat.”
“You people?”
“Podcast people.”
“That’s not a real demographic.”
“It absolutely is.”
She shakes her head, cutting into her eggs. “I don’t think desert diners have activated charcoal. But for the record, avocado toast is good.”
“I never said it wasn’t.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied judgment.”
“Which is different?”
“Yes.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches for the hot sauce at the same moment I do.
Our hands bump.
A tiny whisper of contact.
Still, heat flashes up my arm anyway.
We both pull back a bit.
“You first,” I say.
“No, go ahead.”
“You grabbed it first.”
“You clearly need it more.”
I laugh, sliding it toward her.
We fall back into silence after that.
Comfortable silence.