The Reset
I paid at the self-checkout, keeping my head down, and looped back to the silver sedan where Zia was crouched on the floorboards.
"Got them," I whispered, sliding into the driver's seat.
Zia didn't waste a second. She ripped the packaging open with her teeth. Her eyes were focused, the "Reset" fog completely gone, replaced by a cold, sharp desperation. She dialed a number from memory.
"Tony’s Deli?" she said into the burner. Her voice was steady. "I’d like to place an order for pickup. A large thin-crust... with peppermint."
There was a silence on the other end. I watched her face. For a second, she looked six years old again, sitting on her father's lap. Then, her expression hardened.