Because Naphalie says I can’t walk until morning, even though all that remains of the wound is a ragged scar along my hip and a dull ache that throbs down my leg, Tobin brings my supper into the room. As I eat, he watches me with a faint smile he can’t seem to suppress.
“This is good,” I say, diving into hot soup full of vegetables and meat. It is good, like nothing I’ve ever eaten before. In the facility food was meant to be energizing, not tasteful.
Tobin beams. “Ashe made it. He’s a great cook. Don’t you remember—” He catches himself and clears his throat, slightly embarrassed. “No, I guess you don’t.”
I stir the soup, trying to think of something to say to take away the sudden awkwardness between us. “Where’s your dinner?”
Shrugging, he says, “I’ll eat something later. You must
