The door swung open.

Jax walked in first. He was lanky, covered in grease and tattoos, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Behind him was Tubby, a large man with a thick beard, holding a pink donut box.

They stopped dead when they saw Eva curled up in the chair.

Jax whistled low. A slow grin spread across his face. "Well, well. Who's the little bird?"

Eva shrank back into the leather, wishing she could disappear.

Hoyt stepped between them. He moved with a fluid, threatening grace, blocking their view of Eva completely.

"Back off, Jax," Hoyt warned.

Jax laughed, leaning to the side to get a better look. "Boss's Lady? Finally? Did hell freeze over?"

Tubby stepped forward, opening the box. "She looks hungry. Want a glazed, sweetheart?"

Hoyt slapped the donut box away. He didn't hit it hard, just enough to close the lid with a snap.

"She's not my lady," Hoyt said, his voice dropping an octave. "She's a client. And she's a kid."

"We fix bikes, Hoyt, not girls," Jax quipped.

Hoyt turned on him. His eyes were cold, dead things. "Enough."

The single word sucked the air out of the room. The playful atmosphere evaporated instantly. Jax's grin vanished. He knew that tone. That was the tone Hoyt used right before he broke someone's jaw.

"Alright, Boss," Jax muttered, holding up his hands in surrender. "My bad."

Hoyt turned back to Eva. His expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained alert.

"Ignore them," he said. He gestured for her to stand. "We're going across the street. Mrs. Rose should be prepping the stand by now."

Eva stood up. Her legs were trembling, partly from exhaustion, partly from the tension in the room.

Tubby leaned toward Jax and whispered, loud enough for Eva to hear, "Is she mute?"

Hoyt shot Tubby a look that could peel paint. Tubby clamped his mouth shut.

Hoyt placed a hand on the small of Eva's back-not touching, just hovering, a shield of heat. He guided her past the men. Eva could feel the protection radiating from him. He was a wall between her and the world.

They walked out of the shop and into the drizzle. The rain had slowed to a steady mist.

"He's whipped," Jax said as the door closed behind them.

"He's terrified," Skeeter, a mechanic who hadn't spoken a word from the corner, said quietly.

Outside, Hoyt led Eva to the crosswalk. He looked left, then right, checking the empty street with the intensity of a bodyguard clearing a kill zone.

"Walk," he commanded.

They crossed the street toward the small wooden structure on the corner. The sign read Mrs. Rose's Fresh Produce. A light was on inside.

Mrs. Rose was pulling blue tarps over crates of oranges. The stand was illuminated by a single, naked yellow bulb that swung gently in the wind.

"Nana," Hoyt called out. "Don't lock up yet."

The old woman turned. Her face was a map of wrinkles, lined with age and kindness. She wore a thick wool cardigan and a floral apron.

She smiled when she saw Hoyt. "You need apples, honey? Or did you just come to scold me for working late?"

Then, her gaze shifted. She saw the figure standing behind Hoyt.

Eva stepped into the light. She lowered her hood. Her wet hair framed her face-pale skin, wide dark eyes, a sharp jawline.

Nana's smile froze. Her hands went slack.

The basket of apples she was holding slipped from her fingers. It hit the ground with a dull thud. Red apples rolled across the wet pavement, scattering like spilled blood.

"Amirah?" Nana whispered.

The name hung in the damp air.

Eva's eyes filled with tears. She shook her head slowly. No. Not Amirah. Just the leftovers.

Nana took a step forward, her hands trembling violently. "You... you have her eyes. Her face."

Hoyt watched the scene unfold. He looked from Eva to Nana, piecing it together. The resemblance was uncanny. Eva wasn't just a random runaway. She was a ghost. Amirah was the daughter who had left twenty years ago and never came back.

Eva stepped over the scattered apples. She reached out a hand.

Nana was too shocked to move. She stared at Eva as if she were a hallucination that would vanish if she blinked.

The rain started to pick up again, tapping a rhythm on the tin roof of the stand.

Hoyt moved quietly. He crouched down and began picking up the apples, giving them space, but his ears were tuned to every sound, every breath.

Eva opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to say, It's me. I'm Eva. But the silence in her throat was a brick wall. Nothing came out but a ragged exhale.

She tapped her throat with two fingers.

Nana looked confused, tears pooling in her eyes. "Can't you speak, child?"

Eva shook her head sadly.

She reached into her damp jeans pocket. She pulled out the folded, crumpled piece of paper she had written on the bus, just in case.

Hoyt stood up, holding the basket of apples. He watched them, feeling like an intruder in a moment too private for strangers.

Eva's hand shook as she extended the paper. It was damp, the edges fraying, but the ink was still legible. As her grandmother reached for it, a wave of guilt washed over Eva. The words on the paper were a shield, a kinder, simpler version of a truth too sharp to speak. A truth about a mother who hadn't died in a clean, sudden accident, but who had faded away until there was nothing left. This note was her first lie to this kind old woman, and it tasted like ash in her mouth.

Nana took it. She fumbled in her apron pocket for her reading glasses and perched them on her nose. Her hands were shaking so hard the paper rattled.

Hoyt stood guard a few feet away, his back to them, facing the street. He was the perimeter.

Nana read the first line.

Mom is gone.

A gasp escaped Nana's lips. It wasn't a scream. It was a sound of pure, physical pain, like something inside her had just snapped.

She read on.

She died. I had nowhere to go. I'm sorry.

The paper slipped from Nana's fingers. It fluttered down and landed in a puddle. The blue ink began to bleed into the dirty water.

Nana's legs gave out.

Eva rushed forward. She caught her grandmother just before she hit the ground. They collapsed together onto the wet concrete.

"No," Nana wailed. "No, no, no."

It was a guttural sound, a keen of grief that tore through the night. Nana buried her face in Eva's shoulder, clutching her wet sweatshirt.

Eva held her grandmother. She wrapped her arms around the frail woman and held on tight. Tears streamed down Eva's face, silent and hot. For the first time in her life, she wasn't crying alone in a locked room. She was sharing the weight.

Hoyt turned around at the sound of the wail. He saw the two women huddled on the ground, surrounded by spilled apples and rain.

A sharp pain hit his chest. A memory of sand, blood, and a similar sound of grief flashed in his mind. He shoved it down.

He stepped forward, casting a shadow over them, blocking the wind.

A car drove by slowly, the driver craning his neck to gawk at the scene. Hoyt glared at the driver. His expression was murderous. The car sped up and vanished into the night.

"My baby," Nana sobbed. "My Amirah..."

Eva buried her face in Nana's neck, smelling lavender and old wool.

Hoyt realized they couldn't stay on the ground. The cold was seeping into them.

He crouched down beside them. His voice was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his earlier roughness.

"Mrs. Rose," he said softly. "We need to get you inside."

Nana nodded weakly. She tried to stand, but she had no strength left.