“Be quiet!”
There was a thud as something rammed against glass, the yelling was suddenly louder, and then I heard footsteps pound past us and fade away. It was over. There were more loud voices, and the sound of someone wailing, but it was just the aftermath. Those poor people.
I tried to push myself up, but before I could, Sal’s hot hands slipped under my arms, pulling me into his lap like I was a frightened little girl. I struggled, but he just held me tighter. His body was hard and scorching, like stones in the summer sun, and my body betrayed me by sinking against his heat.
No! I squirmed free and pushed off him, but was shivering so hard my jaw bone rattled. “Y-you sh-should’ve duh-ducked, mmm-moron.”
The look on his face was priceless, but I felt a twinge of guilt and squeezed his arm. Just a conciliatory gesture, nothing more. Definitely not an excuse for one small part of me to feel warm.
✽✽✽
The law enforcement personnel were efficient and skilled. He was impressed with their professionalism and ability to calm the terrified patrons—excepting one teenage girl who was yet to control her copious tears.
Her male companion had been at a loss for how to comfort her, possibly due to the belief espoused on his shirt which read: The World Ended Last Year. Deal with It. It had been Lila who had wrapped her arms around the young stranger as if she was her own child. It was an incongruous juxtaposition, with the teenager’s unnaturally dyed hair and multiple facial piercings pressed against Lila’s unblemished skin, but the girl had cried herself out against Lila’s neck and then mumbled that she needed to call her mother.
An employee in the kitchen had been able to text an emergency request for help, which accounted for the quick arrival of three police cars; but the perpetrator had vanished among the jumbled shadows of adjacent buildings. This was a very commercialized thoroughfare, with several alleys and connecting parking lots—and to make the search more difficult, there were no visual recordings. He overheard two workers explaining to the frustrated officers that the security camera had been broken for three weeks and the owner had not yet replaced it. Descriptions from witnesses would have to suffice.
He understood the officers’ frustration. Emotionally biased information from untrained sources made tracking practically impossible, and he was certain that this man was a danger to the community. Not that he normally bothered with such worries—humans often hurt each other for less cause than monetary gain—but he had seen the criminal nervously scanning the parking lot before he drew his weapon; and had seen him notice Lila. In the split-second that she had hesitated and settled back into her seat, the man had turned away to demand money from the cashier. However, the criminal’s fractal had not turned away. It had separated, its face distorted with rage as Lila’s own fractal approached the entrance.
Rationally, he doubted that Lila’s path would ever cross the man’s again—and he was not concerned by potential risks to unknown humans—but the memory of the violent fractal’s actions was still enough to initiate the sequence of heat and pain. He breathed through the hurt, inhaling as he remembered the degenerate fractal’s arm raising, exhaling at its finger clutching and pulling the trigger, shuddering at the memory of her fractal crumpling and fading away.
Never had he seen fractals interact.
The heat surged, but whether he suffered for his involuntary emotional responses, or simply at the shock that such a potentiality existed—fractals aware of each other!—he did not know. Regardless, he was becoming used to the near-constant levels of discomfort he felt around her. Yet another indication of how deviation from his task was affecting his judgment. The criminal would most likely be caught after committing another robbery or two. His feelings on the matter should have no bearing on his choices. He should not even have any feelings on the matter.
He inhaled again, more deeply, pulling the bakery’s artificially cooled air into his lungs and noting the subtle scent of vanilla among the myriad smells of spices and disinfectant and human bodies. Real vanilla beans—not an extract preserved in alcohol. Would she have died? The fried cakes were of a better quality than the decor suggested. Who would have nurtured her child? A ceiling vent channeled a chilled breeze across his head and shoulders.
From his position on the periphery, he considered the officer interviewing the distraught cashier. Not only could he provide an accurate description of the burned fingernails on the criminal’s right thumb and middle finger—indicating the preference for a certain new street drug—but he could also draw the family crest tattoo someone had inexpertly tried to remove from the disenfranchised young man’s right forearm. The surname designated by that crest would most likely cross reference with one of the one hundred and seventy-five registered owners of the 2011 Limited Edition 175th Anniversary Colt Single Action Army Revolver with a five and half inch barrel—the illogical weapon of choice for the robber. No doubt it would turn out to be a missing collection piece owned by a family member.
All in all, it should be a simple crime for the police to solve. There were more than enough witnesses to help them prosecute. They just needed more information. He glanced over and found Lila watching him, one arm still encircling the child who was now whimpering into a cell phone.
In a moment of weakness, he had sought relief from her cool body, but she had rebuked him. As she should have. And when forced to redirect his thoughts to control his pain, he had realized that she was trembling. Though the evening was brisk, he suspected that the shock of Cara Mason’s revelation coupled with experiencing the—but what had she experienced? Why had she remained in the vehicle?
The right side of her mouth lifted in a half smile, followed by her right eyebrow rising. It
