Chapter 11: Pancakes

I woke up alone in the loft with a blanket pulled over me and the rain gone.

The cup of tea had been moved from the floor to the plywood beside my head.

It was still warm.

I sat there with my knees up and breathed.

My whole body ached in a way that had nothing to do with the fire.

I thought about his hands holding my wrists to the mattress, and I let myself think about it for a full minute.

Then I climbed down the ladder.

The hangar smelled of butter and burned sugar.

Hank stood at a camp stove in an apron that said KISS THE COOK, flipping pancakes the size of hubcaps.

The crew sat around the workbench on stools and crates.

Bruce was at the end of the bench with a mug, not looking at me, with a blush creeping up his neck.

"Morning, sunshine," said the young mechanic. "Rough night? You look like you wrestled a bear."

"It was the storm," I said.

"The storm," Hank said, flipping a pancake. "Sure. It was real loud up there."

"I didn't hear a thing," Bruce said, too fast.

The medic choked on her coffee.

Hank slid a plate in front of me, with four pancakes and a fried egg on top.

"Eat," he said.

"I can't eat four pancakes."

"You flew a hoist rescue with your hands cooked and you can't eat four pancakes?"

I ate three.

Bruce finished the fourth, silently, off the corner of my plate.

I watched his mouth while he did it.

I looked away.

A courier had left an envelope on the bench.

Hank pushed it across with a thumb.

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