He was new in town—a transfer from the Seattle office of a corporate logistics firm. His life was spreadsheets, efficiency, and the quiet hum of an air-conditioned apartment. He ordered a black coffee. She made it. She didn’t ask his name. She just wrote “J” on the cup with a Sharpie that looked like it had been chewed by a small animal.
“Emergency rations?” he asked, shaking rain off his jacket.
That was the beginning.
“You’re not what I thought,” she said as the lights flickered back on.
Sky set down her fork. The candle between them guttered. “Three years,” she repeated, not as a question.
