“Nope,” Gerald replied, his grin widening, eyes twinkling like a child sharing a secret. “Me and my wife, Esther. She ran out for eggs. Should be back shortly.”
Ruby and Jonah exchanged a quick glance, unease knitting their brows. “Can’t believe how expensive eggs are these days,” Gerald continued, shaking his head in disbelief. “Nixon says he’s gonna introduce some kinda price control in the next year or two, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Dread coiled in Ruby’s chest, cold and sharp. She processed his words, trying to latch onto the threads of reality slipping through her fingers. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”
“Sure!” Gerald straightened, his movements slow but steady. He gestured toward the back of the shop. “Esther and I live back there. You’ll have to use the one through the kitchen.”
As she moved forward, Jonah’s hand wrapped around her bicep. The touch grounded her. “What are you doing? What’s going on?” His eyes searched hers, worry etched into his face.
“I need to check something,” she whispered, her voice threading through the ticking of clocks and the rustling of old paper. “Trust me. Keep an eye on the door.”
Jonah nodded slowly, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. He released her arm, and with that silent reassurance, Ruby turned and jogged after Gerald. The weight of Jonah’s scowl lingered on her back.
Gerald led her through a narrow door behind the counter, the scent of old wood and metal registers thick in the air as they passed. They entered a tiny kitchenette, the space cooler and tinged with the faint smell of smoke. An antique oven, its once-white enamel now chipped and browned with age, stood against the far wall, coated in a thick layer of grime, as though it hadn’t been used in decades. Time had forgotten this place, leaving it preserved in the amber glow of another era.
“First door on the right, honey,” Gerald said, pointing with a crooked finger. “I’m gonna head back into the shop and give it another wipe down before closing up for the night.”
Ruby glanced at her phone—2 p.m. The knot of dread tightened in her chest, twisting into something darker, more insistent. She watched him shuffle away, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving her in silence.
The room was unsettlingly neat, save for the oven, as though it had been scrubbed clean with obsessive precision. No dishes cluttered the sink, no trash overflowed from the can, and only two items rested on the chipped Formica table: a lighter and a container of cigars, both polished to a dull sheen. They seemed to be the only traces of life left in this space, stark against the otherwise immaculate surroundings.
A wall adorned with a collection of photographs stood in front of her. Her pulse quickened as she stepped closer. In one, a younger Gerald beamed at her, his arms wrapped around a dark-haired woman in a wedding dress. Both of them radiated happiness. Ruby reached out, her fingertips trembling as she slipped the photograph out and flipped it over. The ink on the back was faded but legible, scrawled in messy handwriting: “Gerald and Esther wedding, July 8, 1942.”
A chill ran through her, ice flooding her veins. Horror gripped her heart with such ferocity that she had to brace herself against the table to keep from falling. The world seemed to hum,a high-pitched buzzing filling her ears, drowning out everything else. She forced herself to take a step, then another, back toward the door leading to the shop. The floorboards groaned under her weight as if protesting her every movement.
She could hear the low murmur of voices—Jonah and Gerald discussing some trinket, the sound muted and distant. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed through the door. The scent of dust and aged wood greeted her once more.
“Who are you?” Gerald cut through the silence, startling her. He had set aside the antique he’d been polishing and was staring at her, confusion clouding his features. “What were you doing in my house? Customers aren’t allowed back there.”
Ruby froze for a moment before Jonah stepped forward, his expression tense. “Do you… Do you really not know?” His eyes searched Gerald’s face as if looking for an answer that wasn’t there.
Gerald blinked, shaking his head as though trying to clear the fog in his mind. “I have to close up soon,” he muttered, running an old rag over the counter, though it was already spotless. “Gotta start preparing dinner for me and the misses.”
Ruby took a step closer and placed her hand on Jonah’s arm, grounding herself. “No,” she whispered, barely audible. “I don’t think he does.”
Realization dawned on Jonah’s face, horror flashing across his features. “That’s not possible,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thermophiles don’t get sick. They don’t even age.”
Ruby swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. “Before I turned, I had an accident. I burned the side of my leg pretty badly, and it left a large scar. It didn’t heal after I became a thermophile. I still have it.”
Jonah’s eyes searched hers, desperate for answers. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the bacteria doesn’t heal previous injuries, infections, or diseases. If he already had a degenerative disorder, it would stop it from escalating, but it wouldn’t reverse it.” She glanced at Gerald, whose vacant stare was now fixed on a distant point beyond them. “He probably doesn’t even know he’s a thermophile.”
“What does thermophile mean?” Gerald asked, frowning, his brow knitting together in confusion as if the term were just out of reach.
Ruby offered him a soft smile, her heart aching with the lie she was about to tell. “A superhero in a comic book,” she said, the words bitter on her tongue.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Jonah faltered. “Without phlogiston, he shouldn’t be able to move.”
“Do you smoke cigars, Gerald?” Ruby leaned against the counter. It creaked under her weight.
Gerald’s expression brightened, and he nodded sheepishly. “One a night. My Esther hates it, but it helps me sleep, so I smoke ’em in the bathroom. She should be coming home soon; she went out to buy eggs.”
Ruby nodded, trying to keep her face neutral. “I’m sure she’ll be here shortly.” She dropped her voice. “I texted Lucas when we got here. The TCA should be here soon.”
Panic seized Jonah, and he shook his head violently. “We have to get him out of here,” he pleaded. “He doesn’t even know what he is. He’s innocent. We have to… have to help him. We have to… do something.”
“No.” The word was firm, absolute.
