Grav didn’t count.
“I’m sorry about cutting up your shirt,” she said. “We can wash your pants if you’d like.”
“That would be nice,” he said.
She collected their used towels, the clothing she’d been wearing, and his pants, and, pulling her suitcase, went to the laundry room. He seemed fascinated by how the washer worked, gazing rapt as she dropped in a cleaning pod and started up the machine.
“How do your people clean clothes?” she asked.
Rolling his shoulders, he averted his gaze.
“Did I ask a forbidden question? Is laundry top secret?”
“No. I didn’t wish to make you uncomfortable.” He sighed. “I doubt secrets matter anymore. The CCU—clothing cleansing unit—is basically a vaporizer. In fact, the CCU was invented first, and then the General Ministry recognized its weapon potential.”
Her mouth twisted. “And the rest is history.”
“Something like that.” He didn’t deny it.
She eyed the harmless washing machine chugging away.I’m sorry I asked.Don’t dwell. Don’t dwell.She bent and removed her clothes from the dryer. “I’ll fold these and put them in my suitcase. Oh, there’s a tote bag in the rear of the gray car in the garage. Would you bring it in?”
He trotted off to do her bidding and returned with the bag. “What’s all this?”
“Drugs. I need to add the pills we found in the asshole’s pack.”
“I’ll get them.” He left and brought back an armload of pill bottles.
She transferred her folded clothes to the gray suitcase and stashed the pills in the tote. “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?” She couldn’t send him on his way on an empty stomach—she’d only left him a few power bars this morning.
“Yes!” he said. “I would.”
“Let’s see what I can rustle up.”
In the kitchen pantry, she perused the cans, boxes, and jars. “I got spoiled living in a house with a walk-in pantry,” she said. “My apartment has an efficiency kitchen. The pantry is a single cupboard.” She lifted her shoulder. “Not that I needed more. I worked such crazy hours I didn’t cook often.”
I got spoiled having a normal life.
“So, you didn’t live in this house?” he asked.
“Not in years, but I grew up here. My parents bought it when I started kindergarten—when I was five.” She brought out a jar of peanut butter, strawberry jelly, a packet of Club crackers, canned peaches, a can of tuna, a jar of mayo, and a box of saltines.
His eyes widened. “We’re going to eat all that?”
“Not all of it, and some of it will have to be thrown out after it’s opened, but there’s nothing I can do about that.” There was little waste with survival rations; they came individually portioned into meals.
He moved toward the refrigerator. “Why is this humming?”
“Don’t open that!”
He froze. “I wasn’t going to.”
“That’s a refrigerator. It keeps perishable food cold or frozen—but the power has been off for a year. It’s one giant mold culture right now. Your sensitive nose wouldn’t be able to handle it—I don’t think mine could either.
“By the way, would you help me move it away from the wall? I should unplug it to save the draw on the generator. I could turn it off, but I’d have to open the door.”
He helped her roll it out from the wall, and she pulled the plug. Humming ceased. They pushed it back in.
She got out utensils, a plate, and a bowl.
