RYKER
The training post takes the hit wrong and jars my wrist, and that is how I know I am distracted, because I have not mishit that post since I was nineteen.
Then I see why.
Amaris is crossing the grounds toward me. At seven in the morning. Dressed, hair pulled back, hands buried in the front pocket of that grey hoodie she steals from whichever room she slept nearest. And here is the thing about Amaris at seven in the morning: she does not exist. Amaris at seven is a rumor. Amaris at seven is still two cups of tea away from agreeing to be a person. I have watched Nia negotiate her out of bed like a hostage situation.
So the woman walking toward me across the wet grass, on purpose, with her chin set and her eyes carrying a full night of no sleep in them, is not here casually.
I set the post down and turn to face her, and I wipe my hands on my thighs, and I wait.
