“Well, there’s no way to keep you out,” she said, resigned. She pushed her glasses further up and stepped back.
He all but scampered across the threshold. “Thank you. You might not remember—”
“Sure I do. Your name is Ox, and your favorite hobby is trashing screen doors.”
He coughed. “It’s. Um. Oz, actually.” He glanced around the sparsely furnished living room. A couch, an old easy chair, and boxes marked…eyes? And arms? No photos anywhere—nothing on the walls at all. “So…how’s the unpacking going?”
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nope to the chitchat. What do you want?”
“To know why you have boxes labeled ‘eyes’ and ‘arms’ in your living room.”
“Nope.”
“A glass of water?”
She sighed. “You know that every building and every house you passed to get here has running water, right?” But she was leading him into the kitchen, thank God. Her back was to him, so he flared his nostrils and tried to parse the cub’s scent from everything else. But it was trickier than he’d expected, not least because her scent was overwhelming: cotton and blackberries with a smidge of gun oil and something that was just her.
“So how long have you been an EMT?”
“I’m not an EMT.” This over her shoulder while she filled a glass.
“But you drive an ambulance.”
“That’s not an ambulance.” She handed him the glass. “And I said no chitchat. What do you want?”
To know what the hell is all over the floor? Oh, and to father cubs on you. Mustn’t forget that! “To welcome you to the neighborhood?”
“Nope. Try again.”
Oh, Christ. It’s baking soda. Nicely done, hot Orphan Annie. He drained the glass because it was time to grab the theoretical bull by the theoretical horns. “Why is there baking soda all over your floor?”
“Oh, that?” Lila looked around, appearing to only now notice the drifts of soda. “Yeah, that’s baking soda.”
“I know it’s baking soda.” He also had a pretty good idea about why it was out. “Why’s it all over the floor?”
“I use it to brush my teeth.”
“You needed all that to brush your teeth?” he asked, dumbfounded. “On the floor and table? In the kitchen? Also, why are you brushing your teeth on the kitchen floor?”
“Well, I also use it for deodorant,” she elaborated. “And calluses.”
“What?”
“And to clean my bathroom. And to slow down kidney disease.”3
“Oh my God!” He hadn’t smelled a thing! How could he father cubs on her if she had kidney disease? And why was that his big worry right now? “You’ve got a kidney disease?”
“No. But I’m a huge fan of the Boy Scout motto.”
“I don’t get it,” he admitted.
“That’s fine.”
“So you’re okay? You don’t have a kidney disease? You could theoretically be around for years and years?”
She blinked. “Um. What?”
He was staring around at the wreck of her kitchen. “Why’s so much of it on the floor?”
“Grease fire.”
“You had a…” As far as he could smell, the stove (which, per Mama Mac, replaced the 1972 model that resulted in the Curs House’s third kitchen fire) hadn’t ever been turned on, never mind in the last twenty-four hours.
“More water?” she asked with faux brightness. “No? Fully hydrated? Goodbye.”
Nothing. Not a whiff of the cub. Just baking soda and blackberries. He turned, following his nose, and then…
“Are you having a stroke, Ox? Your nostrils are flaring all over the place.”
…he caught something. A ghost of a whiff on one particular item of clothing, which he snatched up.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, snatching it back. “What is it with the scarf?”
“She was here!” Now. Now she’ll admit it.
“Nope. Nobody here but us weirdos. Or would that be we weirdos?” Then, abruptly: “What happened to your arm?”
“My arm?” he repeated. He knew he sounded stupid. Couldn’t help it. Also, she wasn’t supposed to notice. And she wasn’t supposed to be the opposite of rattled. Unrattled. De-rattled?
“Your arm,” she emphasized, as if speaking to the slow and dim-witted, which he clearly was. “You’re obviously a lefty—”
Obviously?
“—but you’re favoring it. And…” She reached for him and his heart stopped. Then it got back to work so hard he was momentarily dizzy as she pulled up his right sleeve, exposing the bandage. “…someone bound this up for you.”
Mama Mac, in fact. His foster mother had gotten an earful and an eyeful last night. And speaking of, there were telltale signs of fairy bread here and there. The Mama Mac Welcome Wagon had clearly been in full swing.
He wrenched his attention back to her observation. “It’s just a bad sprain.” Truth. Last night, it had been a break. Tomorrow, it’d be a strain. By Friday, it wouldn’t hurt anymore. In two weeks, he’d be back to one-armed pull-ups. Theoretically. Who had time for one-armed pull-ups? And now he wanted fairy bread, dammit!
“Did you get that when you fell down the basement stairs?”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Fell?” She grinned, which was so distracting he answered without thinking. “No. That was…” When you nearly ran me over with your ambulance that isn’t an ambulance. “Earlier.” He coughed. That sounded natural, right? Like a tickle in his throat instead of a clumsy attempt to get off the subject of his injury? “Listen, Lila, the reason I’m here…”
“Oh, goody. You’re finally getting to it.”
“…I’m looking for a runaway.” Sally Smalls, werebear (subspecies Helarctos malayanus), age ten, temporary parens familia4, last seen leading several IPA employees on a merry chase. Well, one IPA employee. He produced a school picture with Sally scowling at the photog. “I’ve got reason to believe she was here.”
“What, you’re some kind of social worker?”
“No, I’m some kind of an accountant.” Jesus. He really should work on his lying. Or his impulse to give her honest answers. Then, compounding his idiocy, he handed her his card.
She examined it. “You’ve crossed out ‘accountant’ and written in ‘World’s Greatest Detective-slash-Juvenile Advocate.’ And you wrote out ‘slash’ instead of putting in a slash.”
“What? Oh.” He snatched it back. “That’s just the prototype.”
“For IPA, right? Whatever that is.” She paused, but he didn’t elaborate. “Macropi was telling me I should meet someone she thought
