---Dawson---

  # Dawson's Scene: The Important Conversation

  The Big Humans are doing that thing again where they sit around and make those rumbly talking sounds that mean they're worried about something. Not the happy sounds they make when they're petting me or the excited sounds when yummy food appears, but the heavy sounds that make my ears twitch and make me want to growl low in my throat, though I don't, because they don't like when I do that and there my humans and I don't do things they don't like unless it's really important, like strange people entering their taratory.

  I'm lying on my favorite spot on the kitchen floor, the cool tile that feels good against my tummy. I can see both my humans from here without having to move my head, which is perfect because moving is work and I'm very comfortable. Plus this spot is close enough to catch any human food that might accidentally fall from the tall place where humans eat, but far enough away from that scary bad-smelling box that makes the horrible hissing sounds when Jason does things to it.

  Magnen is sitting at the big table with the hot smelly water that humans drink. His fingers are wrapped around the cup and he's making those slow talking sounds that mean he's thinking hard about something. His eyes look like winter sky sometimes, and right now they're looking at something I can't see outside the window, and I'm supposed to be a guard dog so I don't like that.

  "I'm just saying, Bearee, something's different about Jason lately." Magnen shrugs, which is a funny human gesture that I can't quite replicate. "It's not big, but it's there."

  Bearee makes that sound in her throat that means she's thinking too. She's leaning against the counter, holding her funny smelling hot water cup with one hand and tapping the other hand against the hard stone surface. She looks different since she came back from the warm place they showed me but I just smelled the funny burny smell of the loud things they look at sometimes like there's something really important on it—more awake somehow, like she's watching everything more carefully than before.

  Grace! My tail does that happy thump thing all by itself when I think about her. Grace gives the best scratches ever and she smells like outside and wind and something wild that makes my nose want to sniff her forever. Grace went running after we all ate the flat cheesy food, she gave me some, and she's not back yet, which is making my Humans use their worried voices.

  "You have to think about it though, Magnen. Grace is a woman, and women these days..." Bearee doesn't finish saying what she thinks about women these days, but her voice sounds like when humans talk about weather that might be bad or food that smells funny and she smells all worried, and I don't like that. I'm supposed to be a guard dog.

  I don't know what "women these days" means, but the way Bearee says it sounds careful and worried. But Grace isn't scary. Grace is the opposite of scary. Grace is warm hands and quiet voice and the way she sits perfectly still when I want to lean against her legs. Grace doesn't make those high squeaky sounds that hurt my ears when she pets me—she just pets, like she knows that good petting is serious business.

  "I guess you're right about women these days," Magnen says, but then he adds, "but Jason seems happier since Grace got here. More sure of himself, like something... Changed."

  Happier. Yes! That's exactly right. Jason moves different now, not so careful and slow like he used to. He still does his Jason-things, the way he walks around the house, but there's something sure about him now that wasn't there before.

  But Jason's been different since Grace came. Not just happier—though he definitely smells more content and warm, which makes me want to lean against his legs more—but more sure about everything. Like he found something he didn't even know was missing.

  And Grace makes him like that. I know this because I'm a very good boy and I watch everything that affects my humans. When Grace is around, Jason's whole body relaxes. When she talks, he turns toward her voice with a face I've never seen him make for any other human. When she went out running tonight after we ate, he kept looking at the door like he was waiting for her to come back before he went to lie on the big comfy flat thing because he ate too much of the cheezy yummy flat thing.

  "Did you see how he got the pizza menus earlier?" Bearee asks, like she's been reading my thoughts. Which, if she has, why hasn't she gotten me more treets or rubbed my tummy when I role on my back more? "Went straight to the drawer, no hesitation. No feeling around."

  "And the way he was watching her," Magnen adds. "Following her reactions to the food, smiling at her expressions. It looked like..."

  "Like he could see her," Bearee finishes.

  The kitchen goes quiet for a bit, with just the sounds of drinking and that humming from the big cold food box. I shift around a little, just because sometimes moving helps me think better.

  Jason is happier. This is a fact, as clear as the difference between morning smells and evening smells. Before Grace, Jason always seemed heavy somehow, like the air around him was thick. Now he moves like he's carrying less weight.

  And Grace makes him happy. Another fact. When she's close, Jason smells different—less sharp and worried, more warm and content. His voice gets softer when he talks to her, like how it gets when he talks to me early in the morning before anyone else is awake and he just pets me and is happy.

  But here's the really important part—Grace gets happy when she pets me! I've watched this very carefully. When her hands work through my fur, her breathing changes and gets deeper. Her shoulders go down from where they usually sit like she's trying to catch squirls. Sometimes she makes tiny happy sounds that are almost like the purring sounds cats make, if humans could purr. The metalic smell fades and the wild smell that makes me happy gets stronger. it makes Jason happy too, I've seen it.

  This makes a Perfect Situation. Grace petting me makes Grace happy. Grace being happy makes Jason happy. Jason being happy is one of my most important jobs, right after making sure I get enough treats and keeping his lap warm when he smells sad.

  So obviously, Grace should pet me more. Way more. Maybe all the time.

  And if Grace makes Jason happy, and petting me makes Grace happy, then Grace should definitely be one of my humans. I already have Jason and Mom and Dad and brother who smells like wood and brother who smells like metal who are my Main Humans, but there's no rule that says I can't have more humans. Having extra humans seems like everyone's happy, and I like when everyone's happy since that's one of my most important jobs after makeing sure my main human is happy.

  Mom and Dad are still making their serious talking sounds, but I've figured out something important. Grace needs to understand that she belongs here, in this house, with Jason, petting me whenever I want. This is clearly the best arrangement for everyone.

  I stretch in that way that shows off how magnificent my kerly fur is in the light from the window. First, I'll remind Grace how extremely pettable I am. Then I'll use my considerable charm to make it obvious that she should stay forever so Jason's always happy, then jason will give me more pets.

  "The thing is," Magnen is saying in his thinking voice, "I haven't seen Jason this happy in... maybe ever. Not since he was really little."

  Happy. Yes, that's the word. Jason has reached maximum happiness levels, and Grace is definitely the reason. As his dog, it's my job to make sure happiness-causing things stay so he can get petted by them.

  This is clearly a job for someone with my special skills.

  Bearee makes that long breath sound that means lots of complicated human feelings. "You're right. He does seem happier. And if Grace is why..."

  "Then maybe we should trust what he wants," Magnen finishes. "He's not a little kid anymore, Bearee. He's a grown-up who can decide for himself who he wants to spend time with."

  "I know that," Bearee says fast. "I do. It's just... everything's complicated right now. Scary in ways we're still figuring out. And if something bad happened to him because we didn't... He's our son, Magnen. Our blind son who's experience with women is non-existant, and with women lying about men and getting away with it too?"

  She doesn't finish saying what she's thinking, but I get it. Humans worry about things that might happen, even when those things aren't happening right now. It's one of their most tiring qualities, this being anxious about the future.

  But I live right now, where Jason is happy and Grace gives happy scratches and the kitchen floor is nice and cool against my tummy. Right now, everything is exactly like it should be.

  Bearee stands up from the counter, setting her cup down with a little clink. "I should check my email before bed. See if there's anything urgent from work."

  She heads toward the hallway that leads to her office, and I scramble to my feet because following humans around is part of my job description. After all, how else are they going to pet me to calm down if I'm not following them around? Plus, her office has that big soft rug that's perfect for lying on.

  Dad waves goodnight and heads upstairs, probably to find Jason and have one of those father-son talking sessions that sometimes happen when my Humans are worried about things.

  Mom's office smells like paper and the bitter coffee smell and something else that reminds me of the place Jason goes during the day. She sits down at her desk and presses buttons on the glowing rectangle that makes soft clicking sounds. I settle onto the rug and watch her face get lit up by the weird blue light.

  After a few minutes of clicking and reading, Bearee makes a sound I've never heard her make before. Kind of like when Jason drops something heavy on his foot, but different. More surprised and worried.

  "Oh no," she says, staring at the rectangle. "Oh no, no, no."

  Her scent changes to that sharp anxious smell that makes my nose twitch. She's reading something on the glowing rectangle that's making her upset, and her hands are moving faster now, clicking and scrolling.

  "This can't be right," she mutters, leaning closer to the screen. "When did this happen?"

  I lift my head because upset humans usually need comfort, and comforting upset humans is definitely one of my most important jobs. But before I can get up to offer my ears for scritches, Mom suddenly pushes her chair back and stands up so fast it makes me jump.

  "JASON!" she yells, loud enough that I'm pretty sure everyone in the whole house can hear her. "Why is Grace on the internet?"

  Her voice has that tone that means Something Important Is Happening, the kind that makes all the humans come running. I hear feet moving around upstairs—probably Jason and dad both responding to the emergency call.

  "Your friend Grace," Mom repeats, louder. "She's trending on Twitter. Can you come down here, please?"

  On the internet? I don't really understand what that means, but from the way Bearee's scent has shifted to full panic mode, it's probably not good. The internet is that place humans stare at on their rectangles, isn't it? Why would Grace being there be scary? Grace would make everything else scarry of her, or was it scared? Scarry. Scarry of her.

  Footsteps thunder down the stairs, and I can hear Magnen's voice calling back, "What do you mean she's on the internet?"

  But Bearee doesn't answer because she's too busy staring at her rectangle and making those worried breathing sounds that humans do when they're really upset about something.

  I remain on the soft rug, watching and waiting to see what happens next. Whatever this internet thing is, it's making my humans very agitated, and that makes me want to bite it and also, agitated humans usually need extra comfort from their dogs.

  I prepare myself to provide maximum emotional support through optimal petting access. After all, it's my job to make humans happy. I'm a dog, and I'm a goodboy.

  ---Grace---

  I sense the presence before I see it—a shift in the air currents, the subtle compression of snow that even the most skilled hunter cannot entirely eliminate. The kitten stirs against my neck, tucked safely within my coat. Her warmth and tiny heartbeat create an odd feeling of protectiveness I'm not accustomed to experiencing.

  My fingers drift to the bone knife at my hip as I continue walking, maintaining the appearance of unawareness while tracking every movement behind me. The forest has gone quiet—too quiet, as even the winter birds have ceased their calls.

  After twenty more paces, I stop abruptly.

  "You have been following me for three minutes and seventeen seconds," I state without turning. "Speak your purpose, or I will regard you as a threat."

  A sound like grinding stone emerges from behind me—laughter, though unlike any I've heard before.

  "You noticed me sooner than most would have," rasps a voice that reminds me of metal scraping against bone. "Good. You will need those skills for what is to come."

  I turn, maintaining my balance on the snow-covered path. The figure towers at least eight feet tall, wearing heavy full bone plate armor that seems to glow with an unnatural luminescence against the darkening forest. A skull helm conceals his face, eye sockets burning with a cold blue light that reminds me of the bottomless ice lakes of my homeland.

  "You smell of death," I observe, nostrils flareing as I feel the kitten press tighter against my neck, as if seeking protection. "Not like a freshly killed deer or even a days-old corpse. Something... older. More fundamental."

  "Deathloard," the armored giant states simply, as if this explains everything. "The smell comes with the position. Bit like Paladin, which doesn't help him try to help Packleader. Maybee? No, never mind. Not yet."

  "Why are you following me?" I ask directly. The druid taught me that directness often yields better results than circling a subject, particularly with those who might respect strength.

  "Curiosity," Deathloard replies. "You are... not where you should be."

  My muscles tense at the implication that this stranger knows something about my situation. "You know of my displacement?"

  "I know of many displacements. Many worlds. Many timelines." The armored giant shifts slightly, the bone plates of his armor making a sound like distant avalanches on a world of skulls. His gauntleted hand comes to rest on the hilt of a blade that seems to swallow light rather than reflect it. To swallow everything rather then reflect it.

  The rational part of my mind catalogs possible attack vectors and escape routes, but another part—one that has grown stronger since meeting Jason—feels an unexpected surge of protectiveness for the kitten warming my neck and the man waiting for my return.

  "The small creature within your garment need not fear me," Deathloard states, gesturing toward my jacket where the kitten has begun to squirm. "I have no quarrel with children."

  The kitten mewls softly in response, her tiny paws kneading against my collarbone. I feel myself relax fractionally, though my hand remains near my weapon.

  "You mentioned curiosity," I say, my voice steadier than I expect. "Satisfy mine now. What do you want with me?"

  "Nothing immediate," the skull-helmed figure replies. "I am merely... observing the aftermath of choices made by others, nothing more."

  The kitten shifts against my neck, her heartbeat fluttering against my skin. In my world, she would have died, abandoned in that box. In my world, I would have, if I found her, given her a swift death. Yet here I am, carrying her home—to Jason's home that has somehow become mine as well. The simple trust of this helpless creature strikes me in a way I couldn't have comprehended a week ago.

  "I will allow your observation from a distance," I state, feeling a strange protectiveness harden into resolve. "But know this—approach Jason or his dwelling, and I will find a way to end you, regardless of what you are."

  Deathloard goes absolutely still in a way that reminds me of the ice predators from my homeland—the perfect stillness that precedes either retreat or attack.

  "Your loyalty is remarkable," he finally says. "Especially for one who believes herself incapable of such attachment."

  The words hit me with unexpected force. "The oath—"

  "Is that truly all it is?" Deathloard interrupts, his hollow voice somehow conveying amusement. "An oath?"

  For once, I find myself without an immediate response. Is it just the death oath that drives my protection of Jason? three days ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. Now, I'm less certain. The way he showed me how to use his air frier, even after I caust him valuable resources. His genuine concern when I was uncomfortable in the basement. The simple kindness of offering me shelter without expectation.

  "My reasons are my own," I finally respond, unwilling to examine these thoughts in front of this armored giant.

  "Of course." Deathloard steps backward, the snow crunching beneath his bone-plated boots. "We will not meet again unless circumstances demand it." He gestures slightly toward my jacket where the kitten rests. "This world is kinder to the vulnerable than yours, but still holds its dangers. Perhaps there is wisdom in both approaches."

  Before I can respond, Deathloard seems to melt into the lengthening shadows despite his enormous size and gleaming armor. I remain motionless for several minutes, scanning my surroundings, but detect no further presence.

  The kitten squirms against me, its tiny stomach rumbling. I resume my path toward Jason's home, my mind turning over the encounter. Not quite a threat, yet not entirely benign, either. Deathloard's words about loyalty and attachment trouble me more than I care to admit.

  As the lights of Jason's house come into view through the trees, I find myself increasing my pace slightly. The thought of returning—of Jason's face lighting up when he sees the kitten, of warmth and food and conversation—creates a sensation in my chest I cannot name. It isn't the muted contentment I sometimes feel after a successful hunt, nor the satisfaction of a well-cleaned weapon.

  It feels suspiciously like looking forward to something. Like anticipation without the edge of wariness that usually accompanies it. Like seeing that gnarly tree thrusting out of the snow back home—the one that meant safety and shelter were close.

  I shake my head slightly, adjusting the kitten's position inside my jacket. "Emotions are inefficient," I mutter to the tiny creature. "Yet here I am, carrying you home instead of leaving you to the natural order."

  The kitten muse in response, and despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward.

  Perhaps there is something to learn from this world after all.

  ---Jason---

  "What do you mean, Grace is on the internet?" I ask, trying to process Mom's words as I make my way downstairs, still half-trapped in the strange dream about mead halls and system windows.

  Mom holds up her phone with that particular blend of professional concern and maternal disapproval I've come to recognize throughout my life. Her therapist face, I call it—the one that tries to remain neutral while her eyes betray exactly how she's analyzing the situation.

  "This video was posted an hour ago," she explains in that carefully measured tone she uses with troubled students. "Your friend Grace is becoming quite popular online, though not necessarily for good things."

  I can hear a woman's shrill voice coming from the phone. "—lighting illegal fires and killing wildlife! Look at this!"

  grace's voice responds with that unnerving calm that makes her sound like she's discussing the weather rather than being confronted. "Adult squirrels, especially at this time—although perhaps it is different this deep into the warmlands—have meat-ripping teeth, as they can only consume flesh when flesh is all that is available."

  I wince. Of all the cultural differences Grace could have highlighted on camera, she had to pick meat-ripping squirrel teeth. Then again, well. At least it wasn't mircy-killing blind people, so there's that.

  "The fire is out," Grace's voice continues from the phone. "Now, can you leave me in peace?"

  The other woman's voice rises, practically dripping with self-righteousness. "I don't care. You made an illegal fire and killed and ate a cute squirrel. Now I'm going to report you, and you are going to get arrested."

  There's a pause, and then Grace's voice takes on that dangerous edge I've come to recognize—the one that usually precedes mentions of throat-ripping or disembowelment.

  "Who is going to report me? You? Who is going to arrest me? You? You and who? If you were put into the world that I came from, you would not last a week before being consumed."

  The video apparently ends there, because Mom lowers her phone. Her expression is a perfect blend of professional concern and maternal alarm—the look she gets when she's simultaneously analyzing a situation and planning how to protect her family from it.

  "Jason," she says, her therapist voice in full effect now, "I think we need to have a conversation about Grace's background. This video already has ten thousand views. People are calling her 'Survival Squirrel Girl' in the comments."

  "Another keyboard warrior with blue hair trying to get internet famous," I mutter, then immediately regret it when I see Mom's expression shift from concern to disappointment. She's always taught us to be more empathetic than that. I can't always take her teachings to heart.

  "Sorry," I backpedal quickly. "That was uncalled for. It's just... frustrating when people record others without permission." What I don't say is how relieved I am that Grace only threatened the woman rather than, say, pinning her to the ground with a bone knife at her throat. I haven't exactly gotten around to explaining how video recordings work or why stabbing someone on camera might be problematic.

  "Can I see?" I ask reflexively, then correct myself. "I mean, can you describe what's happening in the video?"

  Mom's eyes narrow slightly at my slip—another data point in whatever analysis she's conducting of this situation. "There's not much to see beyond what you heard. Grace is sitting by a small fire near the creek at Marklen Woods. She's eating what appears to be a roasted squirrel on a stick, then puts out the fire with creek water when confronted."

  She studies my face with that penetrating gaze she uses to extract truths from reluctant teenagers. "Jason, I understand you want to protect your friend, but I need to know if there's something more concerning happening here. Grace's behavior patterns suggest significant trauma responses consistent with survival situations. Her language around eating, territorial responses, and frankly, her overall affect raise several red flags from a clinical perspective."

  This is classic Mom—simultaneously compassionate and relentlessly analytical. In her mind, Grace has already become a case study: the mysterious young woman with apparent PTSD and unusual socialization patterns.

  "Look," I say, trying to sound reassuring, "Grace has different perspectives on nature and survival that might seem unusual to us. But she's not dangerous." The lie feels hollow even as I say it. Grace is absolutely dangerous—just not to us. Even if it's mostly because of an oath I'd get rid of simply to not have that noose around her neck.

  Her voice softens, concern overtaking suspicion momentarily. "If she's in some kind of trouble—domestic violence, homelessness, anything—we can help connect her with appropriate resources. My office has partnerships with several excellent intervention programs."

  And there it is—Mom's default approach to any concerning situation: assessment followed by carefully coordinated support services. In her world, every problem has a corresponding program, therapy model, or intervention strategy. She can't possibly conceive that Grace comes from a place where social services consist of a mercy killing if you can't contribute to the clan.

  "She's not in that kind of trouble," I assure her. "She just... has a unique background. Different cultural norms. Please trust me on this."

  Mom's shoulders relax slightly, but her eyes remain evaluative. "Alright. But if the police show up asking questions, you're handling it. And Jason? We will need to have a longer conversation about this soon."

  The unspoken message is clear: her professional patience has limits, especially when it comes to her family.

  "Fair enough," I agree, relieved she's not pressing further for now.

  As Mom returns to her office with that purposeful stride that means she's mentally cataloging warning signs and intervention strategies, I sink onto the couch. The dream fragments still swirl in my mind—giant bearded men in a mead hall, visions of Earth under attack, strange windows appearing with status information. All of it somehow connected to Grace and this bizarre situation I've found myself in.

  I'm still contemplating this when the doorbell rings. Dawson barks excitedly, racing to the door ahead of me.

  "I got it!" I call out, moving to answer it. When I pull the door open, Grace stands on the porch, her presence somehow both intimidating and oddly comforting now—that unique combination of wilderness scent and quiet intensity that's become strangely familiar over the last cupple of days.

  "Hey," I say, smiling despite everything. "You're back. Everything go okay on your run?"

  Grace steps inside, and I notice something odd about her posture—she's holding her jacket closed with one hand.

  "I discovered something," she says, unzipping her coat carefully.

  My smile dies instantly when she pulls out a tiny black kitten, so small it fits in one of her hands.

  "I found her abandoned in a box near the trail," she explains, cradling the tiny creature. "She would have died from exposure."

  "Do you know who did it?" I ask, voice controled, though my rage is cold. "as those who harm animals, children, deserve to have woodchippers go brrr on them, feet first."

  Grace's head tilts in that now-familiar gesture of confusion. "Woodchipper? Brrr?"

  I take a deep breath, trying to rein in the desire to go find the bastard who would leave a kitten to die and introduce said filth to the business end of an axe. Especially since I can do that, now. I can see. It won't help the kitten, and it certainly won't help Grace understand what I'm talking about.

  "A woodchipper is a machine that grinds up tree branches into tiny pieces," I explain, my voice still tight. "And 'go brrr' is a... meme."

  "Meme?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

  "It's like... a joke format that gets shared online. People say things 'go brrr' when they're working really intensely or destructively." I scratch the back of my neck, aware I'm doing a terrible job explaining internet culture. "Basically, I'm saying whoever abandoned this kitten deserves bad things to happen to them."

  "Ah," Grace says with a nod. "In my world, they would be hamstrung and left for the wolves, or perhaps turned into winter clothing." She pauses, considering her words carefully. "Though that would only happen if someone stronger, or a group of individuals, hunted down the one who abandoned the kitten and administered justice themselves. We do not leave the weak or defenseless to suffer if we can prevent it. To do otherwise makes us no better than animals. A quick death is preferable."

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  There's something in her tone—a subtle shift I wouldn't have noticed three days ago—that suggests she's reflecting on her own values as much as describing her world's practices.

  "You're right," I agree, my anger fadeing though not disappearing entirely. "We shouldn't just talk about punishment. We need to help this little one first."

  I gently stroke the kitten's tiny head with one finger. It looks up at me with enormous brown eyes and mews pitifully.

  "Let me get my parents. We need to figure out what to do with this little guy."

  "She is a female." Grace says: "her scent is, different. I do not know how to explain it to one who can not smell this, however."

  "Like sight to a blind man?" I ask, half joking, half to get the visions of an axe burrying itself in the person who abbandoned this kitten's skull out of my head.

  "Exactly." Grace says, mouth quirking ever so slightly.

  I call for Mom and Dad, who both appear looking concerned, probably expecting more fallout from the viral video. Instead, they find Grace standing in our entryway holding a tiny kitten cupped in her palms that's making surprisingly loud mewing sounds for something so small.

  "She requires sustenance," Grace states matter-of-factly. "I gave her some meat from a squirrel I hunted, but I believe she needs milk."

  Mom's expression shifts instantly from professional wariness to compassionate action. Whatever reservations she has about Grace, there's a kitten who requires protection.

  "It's so young," she says, gently taking the kitten from Grace's outstretched hands. "Probably only a few weeks old. Jason, get some warm water and a clean cloth. Magnen, check if we have any eyedroppers in the medicine cabinet. We need to get this little one warmed up and hydrated before anything else."

  As we all snap into action, I catch Grace watching my mother with careful attention—studying how she cradles the kitten, noting her automatic shift into caretaking mode. In that moment, something passes between the two women that transcends their mutual suspicion. A shared understanding, perhaps, of what it means to protect something vulnerable. I don't know though, because I'm not a woman.

  "Poor little one," Mom murmurs, her therapist's voice shifting to the softer tones she uses when comfort is needed more than assessment. "It can't be more than four weeks old. Where exactly did you find it?"

  Even Dad, whose engineering precision usually manifests as emotional restraint, can't maintain his analytical distance. He reaches out with those long, careful fingers that have spent decades manipulating architectural models, gently running a fingertip over the kitten's tiny head. His expression remains measured, but there's a softening around his eyes that betrays his immediate attachment—the same look he gets when sneaking treats to Dawson while pretending to be just tolerating the dog.

  "Near the trail by the creek," Grace explains with her characteristic precision. "She was contained in a cardboard enclosure approximately twenty meters from the main path. The temperature and its small body mass created a scenario where death by exposure was the statistically probable outcome within hours. I... I did not wish that to transpire."

  As she speaks, Dawson approaches with doggy curiosity, his nose twitching as he investigates this new addition to his territory. Most people would instinctively raise the kitten higher, away from the dog. Grace does the opposite—she carefully lowers herself to a crouch, bringing the kitten to Dawson's nose level.

  "Your companion should be introduced to the new pack member," she explains to me, her voice holding the same matter-of-fact tone she uses when discussing survival tactics. "In my world, dogs are often utilized to help raise orphaned animals. They provide warmth, protection, and can retrieve them if they wander too far."

  There's something in how she says this—not the clinical detachment I first heard when we met, but a quiet knowledge born of close observation of natural systems. It reminds me that for all her talk of psychopathy and emotional distance, Grace understands connection and care in her own way.

  We watch as Dawson gives the kitten a gentle, investigative lick. The kitten, rather than recoiling, stretches one tiny black paw toward the dog's nose, a gesture of trust that feels disproportionately significant.

  "Well," Dad says with the quiet certainty he brings to engineering problems that have just presented their own solutions, "looks like that's settled. Dawson's adopted it."

  Grace carefully places the kitten on the floor, her movements controlled to minimize disruption to the tiny creature. She takes a few wobbly steps before Dawson gently picks her up by the scruff and carries her to his bed in the corner of the living room. The dog moves with surprising delicacy considering, something Grace notes with an approving nod—a tactical assessment of his capabilities, I would hope.

  Mom follows immediately, her professional training never completely dormant. "We'll need supplies," she says, already mentally compiling a comprehensive intervention plan. "Kitten formula, a litter box, food appropriate for her developmental stage, perhaps a heating pad..."

  "I'll grab my laptop," Dad offers, his engineer's mind already turning to the logistics. "We can order everything online and optimize for both cost and delivery time."

  "The shipping wouldn't get here until tomorrow anyway," I point out: "might as well just go to the pet store in person tomorow."

  "True," Mom agrees, making a quick assessment of the available options. "We can go first thing tomorrow. For tonight, we can make do with what we have."

  I glance at Grace, surprised to find her watching the kitten and Dawson with an expression I've never seen on her face before. The calculating assessment that usually dominates her features has softened into something else—not quite warmth, but a quiet contemplation. There's something almost wistful in her gaze, as if she's watching something she recognizes but has rarely experienced herself.

  "So we're keeping her?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure of my answer.

  "Of course we're keeping her," Mom says with the firm decisiveness she brings to all matters involving protection of vulnerable beings. Then, her therapist's caution reasserts itself as she adds, "Unless Grace would prefer to take her when she..."

  Grace straightens, considering this with her characteristic thoroughness before: "I believe she should remain here," she states after a moment of analysis. "This dwelling offers superior protection from environmental threats. Additionally, your companion animal," she gestures to Dawson with a hand, "demonstrates instinctive nurturing behaviors that would optimize the kitten's developmental outcomes."

  It's classic Grace—framing an emotional decision in terms of tactical advantages and survival optimization. Yet there's something beneath her analytical framing too, something that feels different, as if she's using the familiar language to express something newer, something she's unsure of.

  "What should we name her?" Dad asks, practicle as always.

  "Kitten," Grace states simply.

  We all look at her.

  "That is what she is," she adds, with the straightforward logic that from what I know defines her approach to everything. "Direct identification ensures clarity of reference. She is a kitten. So, her name is kitten."

  I can't help but laugh—not at her, but at the perfect Grace-ness of the solution. Simple, direct, and focused on function rather than sentiment.

  "You know, that actually works," I say, appreciating the elegant practicality of her suggestion. "Kitten it is, then."

  And somehow, just like that, our household grows by one more. As we all gather around Dawson's bed, watching the newly christened Kitten settling into sleep, I find myself marveling at how quickly the extraordinary has become ordinary in my life. A week ago, I was blind and alone in this house. Now I can see, there's a woman from another dimension living with us, and we've just adopted a kitten that said woman, who told me she would have killed me if a magical thing called Vigger didn't heal my eyes, has now rescued.

  Mom watches Grace with careful attention, her therapist's eyes noting how this supposedly emotionless woman keeps glancing back at the kitten with what appears suspiciously like concern. Dad observes the structural integrity of Dawson's bed, mentally calculating if it will support both occupants comfortably. And Grace stands slightly apart, cataloging everyone's reactions while occasionally adjusting her position to maintain optimal sightlines to both the kitten and the room's exits.

  The dream's imagery flashes through my mind again—system windows blossoming across the world, monstrous shapes emerging from the shadows. I push the thought away. That's a problem for another day. Right now, we have a kitten to take care of, and that's more than enough reality to deal with.

  ---Grace---

  I hear a soft knock on the doorframe of the common area where Dawson and Kitten are sleeping. Jason stands there, his expression holding that particular mix of uncertainty and determination I've come to recognize.

  "Grace? Can we chat in my room?" he asks. Then quickly adds, "It's just a request, not an order. But I'd like to talk about some things. The video everyone keeps referenceing being one of them."

  I nod once, rising smoothly from my position near Dawson's bed. Kitten has fallen asleep against the dog's warm flank, tiny black body rising and falling with each breath. A functional arrangement for mutual benefit—Kitten receives warmth and protection while providing Dawson with companionship and purpose.

  I follow Jason to his room, cataloging details I ignored previously on acount of my focus on the then sleeping Jason as we enter. Books line the shelves in perfect order—alphabetical by author, then title. His desk contains a precise arrangement of items, each with designated spaces. The bed is made with hospital corners, a habit he mentioned his mother taught him. Everything exists in an ordered system that speaks to careful adaptation in a world he couldn't see until recently.

  Jason closes the door before retrieving his laptop from the desk. He opens it, pressing several keys before turning the screen toward me.

  "This is the video," he explains, tapping another key. "I've turned the speach off so you can actually use the computer, NVDA tends to make it jump if you try with the mouse, and you don't know how to use the keyboard yet."

  I study the screen, recognizing myself seated by the fire with the blue-haired woman standing over me. The encounter plays out exactly as I remember it—my explanation about meat-ripping teeth, my dismissal of her threats, my attempt at mimmiking Jason's shrug-gesture.

  "I need to explain something important," Jason says, his tone unusually serious. "This is called a recording. People can capture video and audio with their phones, then upload it for others to see, potentially thousands or millions of others."

  He pauses, watching my face with careful attention. "Which is why I'm asking you—not commanding, just requesting—to please not stab anyone when they have a phone out. I kind of like having you here and don't want you arrested."

  "Arrested," I repeat, testing the word the blue-haired pussbat, (one who is very annoying but ultamitly harmless and a nusence) had said. "This means captured by authorities, yes?"

  "Yes," Jason confirms. "Police are the, uh, law enforcement? Sitty guard of our society. They're the ones who would arrest you if you harmed someone, especially if there's video evidence. This woman filming you could have been extremely irritating, but stabbing her would have created major complications."

  "I have never been within a sitty." I say while processing this: "the first time I have been in a city was, is this."

  "Seriously?" Jason asks, scent growing sharp with excitement as he turns to face me. "Where-d you live? Kind of figured, you, were like out of a city, so an adventurer?"

  "I was not." I say while decideing to look up the term, 'adventurer' later. "I was never more than near five hundred people, though I heard, and saw through our scrying stone, which is attached to another stone to see the place from, a height? A birds'eye-view? Though not even the druid knew why they had initially been constructed, and such have never been near a city.

  "Ok." Jason says, then with effort: "let's get back to the important stuff. Do you understand what I said about the vidio?"

  I process this information, adding it to my mental catalog of this world's tactical considerations. "I understand. Recordings create evidence that can be used against you later. Therefore, one should assume all interactions with strangers might be recorded and modify behavior accordingly."

  Jason blinks, then nods. "That's... actually a really good way to think about it. Yes, exactly."

  He closes the laptop, setting it aside. "Also, I wanted to ask if you still want to go to the survival school tomorrow afternoon? We'll be buying supplies for Kitten—" He chuckles, then mutters something that sounds like "golden banana boys" before recovering himself. "We'll be going to the pet store in the morning, and I thought we could visit the survival school in the afternoon, but if you have other plans, well, that's fine too."

  "Yes, I would like to visit this survival school," I confirm, my eyes drifting to the cabinet above his desk. I move toward it, reaching up to retrieve the two knives resting on top. One is a larger full-tang fixed blade, the one I had sharpened earlier, with the other being a smaller rat-tang design, as Jason had spoken on previously. I examine them with professional interest, testing their balance and edge with practiced movements.

  "These are yours?" I ask, holding them flat across my palms for inspection.

  Jason nods, approaching to stand beside me. "Yes. I haven't really used them much, to be honest. Made a hearth board once, though it's old now and kind of warped. I can baton wood, sort of carve feather sticks, and I mentioned fires with ferro rods before, though it's probably better to just start from the beginning."

  He gestures toward a drawer. "Most of my collection is folding knives, which aren't good for survival tasks. These two are my best options for, you know, not actually dying when everything kicks off."

  I return the knives to their place, noting how his fingers brush over them with familiarity despite his admitted lack of practical experience. Even without sight, he knew their exact location—muscle memory from countless times of handling them as a priority.

  "I had a strange dream earlier," Jason says suddenly, sitting on the edge of his bed, makeing it squeek. "I think it might be connected to you, or at least to whatever's happening with me now."

  I position myself with my back to the wall, optimal for both hearing his account and maintaining awareness of potential approaches to the door. "Tell me."

  Jason describes his dream in methodical detail—a great mead hall filled with warriors singing in an unknown language; a giant red-bearded man who called Jason "brother"; visions of modern Earth being torn apart by strange creatures emerging from shadows; figures discovering unusual powers within themselves. His description is precise, thorough, capturing both the sequence of events and his emotional responses to them.

  "The giant kept saying I needed to understand something," Jason concludes. "Then I woke up to Mom telling me you were on the internet."

  I consider the dream elements carefully. "The red-bearded giant—his height and appearance match descriptions of the frost king from my world. The creatures with too many limbs sound similar to frost wyrms that hunt beyond our settlement's borders."

  "Wait," Jason interrupts, leaning forward. "You think this might be real? Not just a dream?"

  "Unknown," I answer honestly. "But the connections to my world are... notable."

  I hesitate, then make a decision. With a practiced gesture, I summon my status window into existence between us. The translucent blue interface materializes, visible only to Jason and myself.

  His reaction is immediate and intense. His pupils dilate dramatically, his breathing accelerates, and his scent shifts to something I recognize as extreme excitement. He opens his mouth, seemingly about to make a loud exclamation, then clamps it shut, glancing toward the door.

  "Holy—" he whisper-shouts, barely containing himself. "It's real! An actual status window! Just like—" He cuts himself off, muttering something about "high-pitched squeeing" but not wanting to bring his parents "smashing through the door."

  "What is 'squeeing'?" I ask, finding the term unfamiliar.

  A flush of color spreads across Jason's face—embarrassment, I've learned to recognize as he huffs out in surprise before: "It's, uh, a high-pitched noise people make when they're really excited or happy about something. Usually associated with seeing something cute or discovering something amazing. Which this definitely is."

  He gestures toward my floating status window with barely contained excitement. "How does it work? Can you interact with it? Does it show your skills? Stats? Levels? Can other people from your world see it or just you? Would I have one if I went to your world? Does it work like a video game interface? Can I get one? Could someone not from you're world get one?"

  The questions flow from him in rapid succession, each delivered with the sharp genuine note of curiosity thick in his scent. His enthusiasm creates an unfamiliar sensation in my chest—not unpleasant, but difficult to categorize.

  "Is this too many questions?" he stops suddenly, seeming to realize the torrent he's unleashed.

  "No," I reply truthfully. "Your excitement about my status window is... strange, but not unwanted."

  I find myself wondering why his reaction affects me at all. In my world, displays of emotion rarely register as significant. Yet his clear fascination with something so fundamental to my existence creates an unexpected resonance, as if his excitement somehow validates my reality in this foreign place.

  "The window shows basic identification information," I explain, indicating each section methodically. "Name, clan, class designations, alignment, and elemental affinity. It also displays conditions or status effects—in my case, my psychological profile. I can interact with it to view more detailed information about skills, but I cannot alter its contents."

  Jason listens with complete attention, asking clarifying questions that demonstrate genuine understanding of the concepts. His analytical approach to unfamiliar information reminds me of the best rangers in my clan—those who could rapidly integrate new data into existing knowledge frameworks.

  "Oh!" he exclaims suddenly, eyes widening. "I completely forgot."

  He retrieves his laptop again before opening it and navigating through several screenns before turning it toward me. "This is what I wanted to show you. It's the first chapter of a book—well, a web serial—by Ralts Bloodthorne. I think this is where the phrase 'the enemy exists only to be destroyed' comes from, or at least it's where I first read it."

  He taps a few more keys before nodding in satisfaction. "The laptop has about four hours of battery life. Please return it to my room when you're done with it. If anything confusing pops up, just let me know and I'll help. I hope you enjoy it—there are like, fifteen books in the series? I stopped on eight, but, yeah." he shrugs, shoulders riseing and falling.

  He stands, moving toward the door. "I should check on Kitten, make sure Dawson hasn't accidentally squished him. Take your time with the reading."

  After Jason leaves, I settle into the chair at his desk, positioning myself with optimal sightlines to both the door and window. The laptop screen displays text against a white background—a story beginning with someone called P'Thok encountering something called an "ice cream cone."

  I begin reading, absorbing the unfamiliar narrative with the same focused attention I would give to tracking prey through snow. Within moments, I encounter a character described as a warrior from a species called a 'mantid' from a harsh, militaristic society suddenly thrust into an unfamiliar world filled with strange customs and inexplicable kindnesses.

  The parallels are... noteworthy.

  I continue reading, aware that in the room down the hall, a tiny black kitten sleeps safely beside a dog named Dawson, while elsewhere in the house, a family that has no obligation to me nevertheless makes plans to accommodate my presence. The system window hovers at the edge of my vision, a fragment of my world existing in this one.

  And for the first time since arriving in this strange place, I find myself considering that perhaps my world's understanding of strength and survival might not be the only valid approach after all.

  ---Jason---

  ---Jason---

  I punch my pillow into something resembling comfort with a grunt, my fist connecting with the soft fabric harder than necessary. The pillowcase wrinkles under my knuckles as I adjust it for what feels like the fifteenth time tonight, but my mind won't let me sleep, so, here we are.

  Ultamitly, why am I doing all of this?

  I flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling that my Grace-gifted vision shows me in perfect three-dimensional detail. Every texture of the painted surface is clear to me, every slight imperfection where Dad didn't quite get the roller smooth, but none of it provides any distraction from the mental loop I'm caught in.

  Yes, I find Grace attractive. I realize that. The way she moves with that predatory fluidity, the sharp intelligence in her forest-green eyes, the unexpected moments when something almost soft crosses her features—all of it draws me in ways I wasn't prepared for when I first rought her into my house mostly frozen. But there's something else, too. She looks at me like I'm not broken. She looks at me, has always looked at me, even when I was still blind, like I can actually provide something instead of just someone who needs providing for. Everyone else? They might not think it. They probably don't even acknowledge it, and I don't blaim them. I'm one of them. But fundamentally to them, it would be better if I had sight. Grace just gave it to me because--I don't actually know, but not because she thought I was lacking something essential without it. Grace, being Grace, would have just gone with the 'take me out into the back yard, explain what she will do, then opening my throat' stage.

  But still, is that it? Is this just some embarrassingly basic "hot woman equals help her" response?

  I shift position, the sheets tangling around my legs as I wrestle with the thought. My bare chest feels too warm against the cotton, but I can't seem to get comfortable no matter how I roll and roll.

  No. Yes, she's attractive. Yes, I find her attractive with an intensity that sometimes catches me off guard when she's just standing there listening to my explanation of stuff like, I don't know, recordings or her critiquing my knife technique. But that's not the only reason, though it's definitely part of it.

  First of all, and this is the big thing I keep coming back to, I won't, and told Grace I won't act on this attraction because of the death oath, regardless of it's existence. Hell, I'll probably have to rebuff her if she tries to initiate anything, though she won't. That's not, from what I've seen, Grace, even if people have done more fucked up things when they have catagoricle evidence there under someone-elce's thumb.

  I punch the pillow again, this time more out of frustration than any real anger.

  The truth is, Grace needed help. So I helped her. Would I have done it if I wasn't attracted to her? Yes. Granted, would I have been so—what's the word—pushy? No, that's not quite right, but it works. I wouldn't have been so pushy with it, perhaps. Wouldn't have insisted she stay when she talked about leaving. Wouldn't have spent so much mental energy figuring out how to make her comfortable here. Concocting that village story—which, to be fair, we both put a lot of mental energy into getting straight and not just me. Granted it still completely failed the moment my parents started asking follow-up questions, but still. There's only so much you can do when you're pretending to be from a place you've never actually been to and have experiences you've never had.—

  But in the end, yes. I would have assisted. Would have done all of these things, just maybe with less personal investment. She's done nothing to make me think she's takeing advantage. Even if she didn't give me sight, and she did, so that gives her a lot of leeway in my book. I'm a decent human being, and decent human beings help those they can, unless and untill said prove they aren't worth helping by takeing advantage of you. Then, you stop.

  Giving her my laptop is a bit more than that since technically, she could steal it if she wanted. Granted, she won't, if nothing else since the fuck's she going to do with it? Sell it on Kijiji? Set up a Facebook account? The woman didn't understand recordings till i told her earlier, and it's not directly linked to, at least to her, survivel. So, technology theft is probably not high on her priority list. Though, thinking of it, if it wouldn't break the thing, would kind of be funny to see her beat something to death with the laptop. It would break the computer, but if it didn't, would be funny to watch.

  And here I am, awake thinking about all of this instead of going to sleep like a normal person would, especially since I got stuff to do tomorrow, take Grace to the pet store, take Grace to work, and isn't that going to be a shit show? Worry about takeing Grace to aformentioned places.

  The floorboard outside my room creaks, that familiar sound of someone trying to be quiet and failing. I tense, but don't hear footsteps from outside my door.

  Grace appears in my doorway, her silhouette unmistakable even in the darkness. She's holding my laptop against her chest like a shield, her posture that particular combination of confident and hesitant that I've come to recognize means she's operating outside her comfort zone.

  "I apologize for waking you," she says, her voice pitched low but still carrying that formal cadence she uses when she's being especially careful. "However, the laptop appears to have died, and as such, I am returning it to your room as you requested."

  I sit up automatically, my muscles responding before my brain fully catches up to the situation. It's only when the cool air hits my skin that I realize I'm naked from the waist up, the sheets pooling around my hips. My hands move instinctively to pull the covers higher, yanking them up to my chest with more force than I probably need.

  Grace tilts her head in that way that says she's confused. "Why did you do that?"

  "I'm naked," I say, as if this explains everything. Which, I realize a moment later, probably doesn't explain everything.

  Grace tilts her head more. "Yes."

  "Grace," I say, trying to inject some patience into my voice despite the awkwardness of the situation, "I'm naked. You can see me from the ribcage up. I'm a man. You're a woman."

  She considers this for a moment, her head tilting slightly the other way. "I will look away if required," she says finally before raiseing and lowering her shoulders in a shrug that looks like she learned it from a manual about human expressions.

  I shrug, which is difficult to do while clutching sheets to my chest. The movement makes the fabric slip slightly, and I have to adjust my grip. "I'm kind of warm now and don't want to pull down the sheets, so..." I shrug again, now just feeling ridiculous about the hole thing. Grace doesn't consider herself attractive. As such, why would she find seeing me naked strange? I think?

  "Can you look away while I put on my housecoat?" I ask, gesturing toward the door where the thick terry cloth robe hangs on its hook. "It's behind the door."

  Grace moves with that efficient precision I've come to expect from her, stepping around the door to retrieve the housecoat. She tosses it to me with perfect accuracy, the fabric landing across my lap just as she turns away, her movement so fluid it seems choreographed.

  I grab the robe and quickly don it, the familiar weight of the terrycloth settling around my shoulders like armor. The belt ties easily at my waist, muscle memory from years of morning routines guiding my fingers through the motions.

  "Okay," I say, standing up with a grunt, floor cool under my feet before running a hand through my hair. The movement sends it sticking up at odd angles, but I don't bother trying to smooth it down.

  I move to my backpack, which sits in its usual spot beside my desk, and rummage through the main compartment until my fingers find the familiar weight of the laptop charger. The cord is slightly tangled with my phone charger, and I spend a moment separating them while noteing I should put said phone charger back into it's normal pocket.

  "Please follow me," I say, holding up the power adapter. "I'm going to show you how to plug in the laptop so you can continue reading the book if you want."

  We move through the house to the living room, my footsteps muffled by the carpet in the hallway and then more pronounced on the hardwood of the main floor, Grace moveing silently like she always does. Grace indicates the couch where she'd been sitting, pointing to the slight depression in the cushions that marks her spot.

  I nod and place the laptop on the coffee table, it's little feet settling on the tabletop. Then I look around for an electrical outlet, my Grace-gifted vision scanning the baseboards and walls.

  Nothing.

  "There's a plug behind the couch," Grace says, pointing to a spot I can't see from my current position.

  "Ah," I grunt, moving around to peer behind the heavy piece of furniture. Sure enough, there's an outlet positioned low on the wall, partially hidden by the couch's bulk so I can only see it from this angle. "Thanks. Sight is still fucking magical."

  The irony of the statement isn't lost on me—I can see in complete darkness, in a full circle around myself and know exactly what I'm looking at, but I miss a simple electrical outlet because it's blocked by furniture. Still fucking useless, appairintly.

  I plug in the power cord first, the prongs sliding into the outlet with a soft click, then turn to show Grace the process step by step. "So you plug this end into the wall," I say, stating the obvious but wanting to be thorough, "and then this end"—I hold up the smaller connector—"clicks into the laptop right here."

  I demonstrate, the magnetic connector snapping into place with a soft sound, the transformer box starting to heat up, indicateing the device is now chargeing.

  "It's a good idea to not actually have the laptop, despite it being called a laptop, on your lap as it will get too hot," I add, settling back on my heels.

  Grace's expression shifts to that particular kind of confusion that means she's encountered a concept that doesn't translate directly to her experience. "Too hot?"

  "Hypothermia is when you get too cold," I explain, settling into teacher mode. "Your body temperature drops below what it needs to function properly."

  "I am aware of this." Grace says: "that was why you brought me into you're dwelling."

  "Hyperthermia is the opposite—when you get too hot. Your body temperature rises above safe levels. I don't know the spasifics, but, yeah."

  She nods, filing away the information with that intensity she brings to everything else. "Thank you."

  I power on the laptop, the screen flickering to life and casting blue-white light across the coffee table. Grace leans forward slightly, watching with interest as I navigate to the battery indicator.

  "See this percentage?" I wave at the screen. "When it reaches one hundred percent, you should remove this"—I indicate the charging cable—"the plug that clicks into the laptop itself. At that point, you can return to having the laptop actually on your lap if you want. It'll run on battery power for several hours, but I guess you probably already know that."

  Grace nods again, more decisively this time. "I will return both the laptop and the charger to your room when I am finished."

  "Sounds good," I say, standing and stretching only for my back to give out several loud pops.

  Grace settles back onto the couch with the laptop balanced on the coffee table in front of her, but as I take a step toward the hallway, she speaks again.

  "Jason." Her voice carries that particular careful tone that means she's about to say something she's been thinking about. "Before you return to your room."

  I turn back to find her reaching for the small pouch at her belt, the same one she'd pulled the first sleeping draft from her first day here. My stomach does something complicated as I watch her extract another tiny glass vial, this one containing the same shimmering liquid that had given me the best sleep of my life.

  "I observed you adjusting your pillows repeatedly when I approached your room. Your movements suggested frustration rather than comfort." Grace says while holding the vial between two fingers like she's weighing whether to offer it.

  "Were you watching me sleep?" I ask, slightly concerned about how not concerned I actually am about the prospect.

  "No." Grace says: "I stood on the floorboard in-order to announce myself. I only watched as I moved towards you're door."

  "Yeah," I admit, because there's no point in lying to someone who notices everything. "My brain's been doing that thing where it just spins and spins. You know how it is."

  Grace tilts her head in the way she has, and I realize she probably doesn't actually 'know how it is'. Everything about Grace suggests she's someone who either sleeps soundly or not at all, with very little middle ground for lying awake overthinking life choices.

  "I do not experience what you describe," she confirms, "but I have observed it in others. Clan members who would pace the perimeter after difficult hunts, unable to settle despite exhaustion." She extends the vial toward me. "This would provide the same rest as before."

  I stare at the small vial, my chest tightening with something that feels uncomfortably close to gratitude. She doesn't have to do this. Hell, she doesn't have to do any of this. The woman could have left after I gave her those clothes and never looked back. Instead, she's sitting in my living room at two in the morning, offering me a second dose of what's probably some kind of incredibly potent magical sedative she can just make because she noticed I was having trouble sleeping.

  "Are you sure?" I ask, taking the vial but not opening it yet. "You mentioned these were for extreme pain and medical procedures. I don't want to use up something you might need later."

  Grace's expression shifts into something that might almost be amusement if I'm reading it right. "I have sufficient supplies for my current needs after my walk earlier. And your sleep difficulties will affect your performance tomorow, which will affect you're ability to guide me in this world."

  Trust Grace to frame kindness as tactical necessity. Though knowing her, it probably is both.

  "Also." she continues, her voice dropping slightly, "you assisted me tonight with the laptop and charging device when you did need to do so. This is simply a repayment, nothing more."

  I smile. After all, there's something refreshing about Grace's straightforward approach to... well, everything. She helped me, I helped her, now she's helping me again. Simple transaction between allies. Even if, well. I sometimes wish it was more. i promptly grab that thought, stuff it into a bag, and shove it into a small dark room before slamming, and then locking from the outside, the door.

  Except it doesn't feel simple, standing here in my housecoat in the dim glow of the laptop screen while Grace watches me with those sharp green eyes. It feels like something more significant, though I couldn't put words to what that might be.

  "Thank you," I say, and mean it. "Really. This stuff worked miracles last time."

  "Do not consume it until you are in your bed," Grace says, though her mouth quirks slightly. "I will not carry you to bed when you fall onto the floor."

  "Right. Learned that lesson already." I hold up the vial, letting the dim light catch the liquid inside. It swirls with that same subtle luminescence I remember from before, like captured moonlight or the aurora borealis condensed into a few precious drops. "Same amount as last time?"

  "Yes. The entire contents." Grace pauses, then adds, "You may experience vivid dreams. This is normal and will not affect the quality of your rest."

  Vivid dreams. I remember the strange, intense dreams from the first time though I only remember them now—something about rangers and arrows and Grace correcting my knife technique while Dawson watched with perfect canine indifference. If that counts as vivid, I can handle it.

  "Got it," I say, tucking the vial carefully into the pocket of my housecoat. "Thanks again, Grace. For all of this. For, well. Everything."

  She nods once, that economical gesture that somehow manages to convey acknowledgment, dismissal, and something that might be warmth all at once. "Go to sleep, Jason."

  The words follow me down the hallway as I make my way back to my room, the small weight of the vial in my pocket both comforting and oddly intimate. Grace had noticed I couldn't sleep. Grace had cared enough to do something about it. Grace had trusted me with another dose of what's probably incredibly valuable magical medicine.

  In my room, I strip off the housecoat and hang it behind the door, then sit on the edge of my bed with the vial in my palm. The liquid inside shifts and swirls, catching the faint light from the hallway in patterns that seem almost alive.

  From the living room comes the soft click of the enter key, so probably a new chapter, followed by the quiet creak of the couch as Grace settles into a more comfortable position. She'll be out there reading for hours probably, keeping watch in her own way while I sleep off whatever this potion does to my brain.

  It's a strange thought—going to sleep knowing Grace is awake and alert in my living room, like having the world's most dangerous and competent guardian angel. Someone who could probably kill an intruder six different ways before they made it past the front door, who's chosen to spend her night making sure I can get some rest. Also reading a web novel I gave her, though that's more adorible than anything else.

  I pull back the covers and slide into bed properly this time, arranging the pillows into something approaching comfort. The sheets are cool now, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders starting to ease just from the anticipation of actual sleep.

  The vial feels warm in my hand as I pull out the cork, the soft pop barely audible in the quiet room. The liquid inside gives off a faint herbal scent—honey and something earthy, just like I remember. Complex but pleasant, like drinking concentrated tranquility.

  "Here goes nothing," I murmur to myself, and tip the entire contents into my mouth.

  The taste is exactly as I remember—sweet honey and herbs with that underlying earthiness that somehow manages to be both foreign and familiar. I swallow it all, set the empty vial on my bedside table next to my knife, and settle back into the pillows to wait.

  The effect is faster this time, or maybe I'm just more aware of what to expect. Within minutes, that familiar heavy warmth begins spreading through my limbs, starting in my chest and flowing outward like honey through my veins. My eyelids grow impossibly heavy, and the circular thoughts that had been keeping me awake earlier fade into distant, unimportant whispers.

  My last coherent thought, as consciousness slips away like water through my fingers, is gratitude. Not just for the sleep that's coming, but for Grace herself—this strange, dangerous, impossibly complex woman who's somehow decided I'm worth keeping alive and rested, when sometimes I don't even think that about myself. Well, the alive bit, anyway. Rested is just a case of me forgetting to sleep because I found interesting things sometimes.