Killing Time


I perched on the edge of the couch in the common area, trying to convince myself not to check my phone.

“…And then Amalia says, honey, I grew up in Philadelphia. If you think I won’t break your wrist to get the last dahlia on Mother’s Day, you’ve got another thing coming.” Sam grinned at me.

I chuckled. He’d been regaling me and the rest of the security team with tales of his wife ever since I returned to the common room, slowly coaxing me away from the window and involving me in the conversation. Amalia seemed like an incredible woman, and I couldn’t wait to meet her when we got home. Maybe she’d want to help out at the shelter.

But, like always, the thought of returning home turned my stomach.

“I’m gonna go make some more tea.” I stood.

Sam held up his mug. “Coffee, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I shook my head. “I understand why your wife breaks wrists.”

He laughed. “Then, I’ll have tea.”

I took his mug with a weak smile and headed for the small kitchenette, slightly walled off from
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