Chapter 4 #3
The kind that sneaks up on you before you realize it’s happening.
At some point, without looking up, she tears off half her toast and nudges the plate toward me as if it were muscle memory. I grab it without looking and bring it to my mouth. Realizing what we both did, I stare at the toast for a second.
Then at her.
She notices I’m staring, then looks down, then her eyes lock back on mine. She sets her phone down on the table.
“This is weird.”
“What?”
“The newspaper. Sharing breakfast. Silent food redistribution.” She gestures between us vaguely. “This is weird.”
I look down at the table.
She’s not wrong.
At some point, we’d unconsciously settled into each other’s space like we’d done this before. Her coffee ended up near my elbow. Her hot sauce somehow migrated to my side of the table fifteen minutes ago. She gave me toast.
Huh.
“You accepted the toast without even looking,” she says.
“You offered it.”
“I didn’t offer it,” she argues. “My body offered it. Which is somehow worse.”
I grin despite myself, tearing off another piece. “Maybe you just sensed I needed carbohydrates.”
“You’re disturbingly calm about this.”
“I don’t know what reaction you want from me.”
“Concern. Panic. Acknowledgment that we’ve somehow developed divorced-parent diner energy in under twenty-four hours.”
I laugh quietly, leaning back in the booth. “Divorced-parent diner energy is very specific.”
The waitress appears with the coffee pot again, topping us off without asking. Daisy automatically slides both of our mugs toward her while still looking at me. The weird warmth returns immediately.
I clear my throat and reach for the newspaper to give myself something to do. “So.”
“So,” she echoes.
“You survived your first few nights in the Machine.”
“Did I? I sustained at least three head-related injuries.”
“That was user error.”
“That was poor architectural planning.”
“The bunks are extremely functional.”
“They’re coffins with charging ports.”
“Again with the coffin thing.”
She smiles into her coffee cup this time, and I catch myself staring for half a second too long.
Bad idea. Terrible idea. I force my eyes back to the paper.
“So what’s today’s plan again?” she asks after a second.
I exhale a relieved sigh, grateful for the pivot. “Scouting first. There’s a canyon system about forty minutes east of camp that lines up with two separate sighting reports.”
“Credible reports?”
“Yes.”
“You sound very certain.”
“Because they are.”
She lifts a brow. “How do you determine that?”
I fold the newspaper, settling into familiar territory. Easier territory.
“Consistency,” I say. “Environmental overlap. Behavioral patterns. Most fake reports fall apart under basic scrutiny because people overcompensate with detail.”
“And the real ones?”
I pause, considering my words. “People who have really seen something they can’t explain tend to struggle describing it.”
She watches me intently.
“You really believe this,” she says.
It’s not a question.
I look down at the coffee in front of me, steam curling upward between us.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I do. I’ve seen enough validating evidence through our work that it’s harder to doubt things than it is to believe them.”
The thing is, I’m used to the reaction that usually follows that sentence.
Amusement. Judgment. Polite discomfort.
Daisy just rests her chin on her hand and studies me like she’s trying to solve something.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t sound crazy.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop it. “That’s honestly one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I’m serious.” She shrugs. “I expected more… intensity, I guess.”
“I’m plenty intense.”
“Oh, no, you definitely are,” she retorts. “Do I need to remind you that you made me a laminated field manual?”
“It was informational.”
“It had bullet points.”
“Bullet points increase retention.”
Her mouth twitches again.
God.
I take another sip of coffee, trying not to notice how, for the first time, being the subject of someone's scrutiny feels nice.
Outside the diner’s windows, the desert morning begins to awaken around us. Sunlight spills gold across the empty road. Somewhere behind the counter, old country music crackles through worn speakers.
She glances toward the window, messy hair falling over her freckled shoulder. “So, what exactly are we looking for today?”
I lean forward, slipping into explanation mode before I can stop myself.
“Okay, so. The canyon system creates natural movement funnels. Water sources nearby. Minimal human traffic. Plus, there have been repeated reports of vocalizations in the same elevation range over the last six months.”
She blinks, then smirks.
“You’re cute when you talk about migration patterns.”
I stare at her.
“What?”
“You got excited! It’s endearing.”
I nearly inhale coffee into my lungs.
Across from me, Daisy smiles innocently. But not innocently enough to hide the fact that she knows what she just did.
Which means one of two things.
Either she flirts with everyone like this, or she specifically likes watching me short-circuit.
I hope it’s the latter.