Ken had finished cleaning the pan and set it on its hook and was sitting at the small table with his hands around a cup that had gone cold.
They had not spoken in a while.
"She read the assessment," Mahir said, eventually. Not a question.
"She confirmed everything," Ken said.
"She'll come back."
"Yes."
Another silence. The torch on the wall moved slightly in a draft that came from somewhere the architecture didn't explain.
"Do you think—" Ken started.
"Yes," Mahir said.
"You don't know what I was going to ask."
"You were going to ask if I think she's worth it."
Ken was quiet for a moment. "Are you going to answer?"
Mahir looked at the ceiling. His tail moved once against the upholstery — not the reflexive warmth of seeing her, the other kind, the slower and more considered kind.
