GARRETT
I END up back in Tower the next day. As much as I want to, I don't go to Emily.
For now, I observe her through the diner's big windows, unseen from my vantage point across the street.
My wolf ears catch every sound. The scrape of knives against the plates.
The impatient snap of a customer's fingers. The hiss of the fryer and the simmer of the coffee pots.
Emily never stops moving. I watch her balance three plates on one arm, weaving through customers heedlessly pushing chairs into her way. I see her kneel to wipe up a spill before a child can slip, then straighten with a smile that hides her weariness. She leans across a booth to calm a grumbling old man having trouble holding the pen in his trembling hands, her voice even, her eyes kind.
She does it all without faltering, without snapping, even as the strain shows in the set of her shoulders.
As I watch her, I burn with pride and hunger. I ache to pull her out of there and free her from that grind.
