The younger girl, Liri, had recovered enough from the Glimmuck incident to let her curiosity override her terror. She hovered near the pass-through window, peppering Marcus with questions in broken, hesitant English, asking about the menu, the world outside the glass, and, most pressingly, the culinary logic of the meal he was prepping.
"Why…" she frowned, pointing a slender finger at the yellow squares of American cheese, "why do you melt the milk-solid on the dead beast?"
"Because it's the law," Marcus muttered, half-joking, as he pulled two heavy beef patties from the cold storage.
He slapped the meat onto the seasoned flat-top grill. The sound was instantaneous and aggressive—a loud, wet hiss that filled the kitchen. Smoke curled up, carrying the primal, savory scent of searing beef and rendering fat. It was a smell that bypassed higher brain functions and went straight to the lizard brain, signaling safety, hearth, and survival. For Marcus, the ritual calmed him more than he liked to admit. The gun in the safe was one kind of control; the spatula in his hand was another.
He worked with muscle memory, flipping the patties once a hard crust had formed. He laid the cheese slices over the meat, watching the corners droop and liquefy in the heat. He tossed the buns on the cleaner side of the grill to toast, waiting for the edges to turn golden brown.
He built the burgers with the care of a man assembling a weapon. Bottom bun. A reasonable line of house sauce—mayo, ketchup, a dash of smoked paprika. Crisp lettuce. A thick slice of tomato. Three pickles, arranged so every bite got a crunch. Then the patty, dripping with cheese. Top bun.
No experiments. No artisanal nonsense. Just pure, unadulterated American comfort.
He loaded the two plates onto a tray, added two sweating glasses of cola, and pushed through the swinging kitchen door with his hip.
The instant he appeared in the dining room, the reaction was physical. Both sets of long, pointed ears twitched toward him like radar dishes locking onto a target. Their heads turned in unison, eyes wide, nostrils flaring as the heavy, rich scent of the food rolled across the table and hit them.
He set a burger in front of each woman, placing the drinks by their elbows.
Liri's reaction was immediate. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. She leaned forward, her body drawn by the heat and the smell before her mind could check the impulse. Her hand started to rise, fingers curling.
But Eira, the older one, was made of sterner stuff. She held herself rigid, her jaw locked tight, clamping down on her own hunger with visible effort. Her hand shot out under the table—Marcus saw the movement of her shoulder—and gripped Liri's knee.
Liri froze. They didn't reach.
"Burger," Marcus said slowly, pointing to the plate. "Beef. Cheese. Bread."
He waited. The air in the diner felt thin and stretched. He was tempted to be irritated—he'd just cooked them a meal on the house—but he looked at their hands. They were clenched together in their laps, knuckles white, tendons standing out against pale skin.
This wasn't about manners. It wasn't about being picky. It was deep-seated fear, habit, and a history he couldn't begin to guess at. In the wild, you didn't eat what you didn't kill, and you didn't trust strangers who offered you things for free.
"Right," Marcus murmured. "Trust falls first."
He backed away, leaving the plates steaming on the table. He went back into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him.
He threw one more patty on the grill. He didn't rush this one. He let the crust get dark. He toasted the bun until it was crisp. He loaded it up with extra pickles, a double shot of sauce, and a slice of raw onion—the messy, pungent version he liked when he was alone but never served to customers.
He carried the plate out, grabbed a handful of fries from the warmer, and walked past the bar. instead of hovering over them, he slid into the far end of their booth, putting a good three feet of distance between him and Eira.
"Alright," he said quietly, setting his plate down. "We'll do this together."
Their eyes pinned him. They looked at him like he was about to perform a magic trick or an execution. The Glimmucks peeked out from under the table, sniffing the air, their golden eyes reflecting the hunger the sisters were trying to hide.
Marcus picked up his burger. The sauce dripped onto his thumb.
Eira and Liri tracked every motion. Their gaze followed the burger from the plate to his mouth.
He took a slow, deliberate bite. He made a show of it, chewing obviously, unbothered. He swallowed, letting them see the mechanics of it. He nodded to himself, wiped his thumb on a napkin, and took a long sip of his cola.
"Good," he said.
Liri's lips parted. Her throat worked, swallowing dry air, her eyes glued to the half-moon bite mark in his sandwich.
Eira's gaze flicked from his burger to hers, then back to his face. She was looking for signs—poison, magic, a trap.
He kept eating. He popped a fry into his mouth. He took another bite of the burger, closing his eyes for a second to savor the grease and the salt. He let his shoulders drop, exhaling a long breath. He let them see that eating this food didn't make him sick; it made him human.
Finally, he gestured with his free hand.
"Your turn."
He pointed at his burger, then at theirs. He tapped his chest with a thumb. "Marcus." He tapped his food. "Safe." He pointed to them. "Safe."
Something clicked in the tension of the booth.
Liri glanced sideways at Eira, a silent, desperate plea. Eira hesitated for one heartbeat more, scanning Marcus's face, then gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
The permission broke the dam.
Liri reached out with both hands, her fingers trembling violently. She lifted the heavy burger, the bun denting under her grip. She brought it to her face and inhaled like she could live on the smell alone. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lashes resting on her cheeks.
Then, she took a small, careful bite.
The reaction rippled through her entire body.
Her shoulders dropped three inches. Her eyes flew open, wide and glassy. A tiny sound escaped her throat—a wet, choked noise that was half-sob, half-laugh. It was the sound of a body remembering that it didn't have to die today.
Eira watched her sister, gauging the reaction. Seeing no poison, no trap, she reached out and picked up her own burger. Her hands were steadier, but her focus was absolute. She took a bite.
Surprise flared across her face—the shock of the salt, the richness of the meat, the tang of the pickle. Then, her expression crumbled into something like profound relief.
They didn't say a word. They didn't have to. Everything about the way they slumped into the booth, the way their grips tightened on the bread, said the same thing.
It was the first real food they had seen in a very long time.
Names Across the Table
Once that first bite landed, the restraint vanished completely.
They devoured the burgers.
It wasn't sloppy. They didn't spray crumbs or chew with their mouths open. It was efficient. It was the eating style of soldiers or survivors—fast, precise, minimizing the time between plate and stomach. They took huge bites, chewed rapidly, and swallowed hard.
The fries went next. Their fingertips, long and pale, snatched the potatoes, catching the salt and heat before disappearing into their mouths. The cola vanished in long, grateful pulls, the ice clinking against their teeth.
Marcus slowed down, his own appetite fading as he watched them.
He'd seen people eat like this before. He'd seen it on forward operating bases when supply drops went wrong and the MREs finally showed up three days late. He'd seen kids in war zones tearing into ration packs like someone might yank them away at any second.
Seeing it here, in his quiet, failing restaurant, under the hum of the neon sign, did something to him. It cracked the hard shell he'd built around his empathy.
By the time his burger was half gone, their plates were wiped clean. Not a sesame seed remained. Only the rattling ice was left in their glasses.
Liri fished an ice cube out of her glass, crunched it loudly between her teeth, and then looked at him, startled by the noise, looking almost guilty for enjoying the cold.
"There we go," Marcus said softly, wiping his mouth. "That's more like it."