CHAPTER NINTEEN

Riley stands in the kitchen for a moment before she starts, one hand resting lightly against the counter while the other adjusts the strap of the pouch on her shoulder. The house is quiet this early, the kind of quiet that makes every small movement feel louder than it is. The floor is cool under her feet, a steady, grounding cold that she’s stopped reacting to in any obvious way, even if she still notices it with every shift of her weight.

The tupperware sits where she left it in the fridge.

She takes it out and sets it on the counter, pausing just long enough to look at the lid. The name is written in black marker, slightly smudged at one edge where her thumb must have brushed it yesterday.

Rosey.

Memories of the excited little Meatgirl surface as she looks at the cuts of meat the Farm had given her as a gift.

The cut she picks is thick. More than she needs for breakfast, probably, but that doesn’t really matter. She lifts it out with her fingers and drops it into the pan, the sound immediate and sharp as it hits the heat.

A loud sizzle fills the kitchen.

The smell follows quickly after, rich and heavy, spreading out into the room as the fat begins to render. Riley leans her hip lightly against the counter while she watches it cook, the warmth from the stove brushing against the front of her body in a way that feels almost exaggerated after the cooler air everywhere else.

One foot slides back against the tile.

The heat reaches her differently now. The heat reaches her directly, fading when she leans away and returning when she settles again of it, just direct warmth against her skin that fades the moment she leans away and returns as soon as she settles back in place. It’s not uncomfortable.

Riley turns the bacon after a minute, pressing it down lightly with the spatula. The surface has already browned, edges curling slightly as it crisps. The smell deepens.

She cracks an egg against the side of the pan and drops it in beside the meat.

The white spreads quickly, edges turning opaque almost immediately while the yolk sits intact in the centre. Riley watches it for a second, then reaches for the empty shell halves still resting on the counter.

She doesn’t throw them away.

Instead, she rinses them briefly under the tap, shakes off the excess water, and sets them into the small blender beside the sink. The sound when she switches it on is loud in the quiet kitchen, a short mechanical whir that turns the shells into a fine, pale powder.

She pours a glass of orange juice and taps the blended shells into it, watching the grains settle and swirl before giving it a quick stir with a spoon.

By the time she turns back, the egg is ready.

She slides everything onto a plate in one smooth motion, the bacon settling beside the egg with a soft, oily shift. The heat from it rises immediately, curling into the air between her and the counter.

Riley carries the plate to the table and sits.

The chair feels slightly different now, harder somehow without the layer she used to have between herself and it. She adjusts once, a small shift of position more out of habit than discomfort, then settles properly with the plate in front of her.

For a second she just looks at it.

Then she picks up the fork and starts eating.

The bacon is good. Crisp at the edges, softer toward the middle where the fat hasn’t fully rendered out. She chews slowly, not rushing it, letting the taste sit for a moment before swallowing. The egg follows, the yolk breaking cleanly and spreading across the plate.

Riley drinks the juice last.

The texture is slightly off because of the powder, just enough to feel it if she pays attention, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. She swallows it down in a few steady mouthfuls, setting the glass back on the table when it’s empty.

The kitchen is still quiet.

Nothing feels rushed.

She leans back slightly in the chair, one hand resting against her stomach while the other idly traces along the edge of the table. The morning light coming through the window lands across her shoulders and chest, warm in a softer way than the stove had been earlier.

Riley tilts her head a little, feeling it.

Then she sits forward again, reaching for her plate to clear it away.

Riley rinses her plate under the tap, watching the last streaks of yolk slip away into the sink. The water runs hot over her fingers, a steady, almost soothing heat that lingers even after she pulls her hand back. She sets the plate in the rack and reaches for the pan next, tilting it carefully so the grease slides off in a slow, glossy sheet.

The kitchen smells like cooked meat and citrus now, heavier than it had been a few minutes ago.

She wipes her hands on a towel and pauses for a second, eyes drifting back toward the counter where the tupperware still sits.

Riley steps over and rests her fingers lightly on the lid, not opening it this time.

There’s still a lot left.

More than she’d usually keep for herself, even spread across a few days. The piece she cooked this morning hadn’t made much of a dent in it at all. Thick cuts, dense. It would last if she wanted it to.

She leans her hip against the counter again, the cool edge pressing into her side while her other hand stays on the container.

Seven days.

Well—less now.

She doesn’t look at the watch. She already knows it’s ticking.

Riley tilts her head slightly, thinking it through in the same quiet, practical way she’s been handling everything else.

If she spaces it out, smaller portions, maybe stretches it across meals…

Yeah.

She probably could.

Finish it before she has to report.

The thought settles without much resistance.

She taps her fingers once against the lid, then lifts the container and slides it back into the fridge. The door closes with a soft thud, sealing the smell and the name away again.

For a moment she just stands there, the quiet of the kitchen returning around her.

Then she turns back to the sink to finish cleaning.

Riley is still at the sink when she hears movement upstairs.

It starts as a dull shift through the ceiling, then the familiar rhythm of footsteps crossing the landing. A door opens. Another closes. The house begins to wake in slow, ordinary pieces, just like it always has.

By the time her parents come down, the smell has already reached them.

“Something smells good,” her dad says as he steps into the kitchen, still half-awake, rubbing at the back of his neck. He pauses when he sees her standing there by the counter, then glances toward the stove like he’s expecting to find a full breakfast waiting.

Her mom follows a second later, tying her robe a little tighter as she walks in. She takes one look at Riley, then at the empty pan sitting on the rack, and raises an eyebrow.

“Did you make enough for everyone?” she asks.

Riley shakes her head, drying her hands slowly with the towel.

“Just for me,” she says. “Sorry.”

Her dad gives a quiet, mock-offended huff, but it doesn’t carry any real weight.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Cold.”

Riley shrugs, not apologizing any further.

“I’m heading into town today,” she adds, setting the towel down on the counter. “Figured I’d eat here first.”

Her mom nods once, like that explains everything.

It does, in a way.

There’s a brief pause while her dad moves past her to the cupboard, pulling out a mug. The normal routine fills the space easily enough, the sound of the kettle clicking on, the low scrape of ceramic against the counter.

Then Riley speaks again.

“I’m going to Amanda’s tomorrow,” she says, like she’s just remembering to mention it. “Afternoon. We said we’d do one last sleepover.”

Her mom glances over immediately.

“The last one,” she repeats, softer.

Riley nods.

“Yeah.”

There’s no argument. No hesitation. Just a quiet acceptance that settles into the room as naturally as everything else has.

“That’s good,” her mom says after a moment. “You should.”

Her dad leans against the counter with his coffee, watching Riley over the rim of the mug.

“Make the most of it,” he adds.

Riley shifts her weight slightly, the movement small and unthinking. The cool air in the kitchen brushes across her again as she turns, catching along her arms and shoulders, slipping past her without anything to stop it. She doesn’t react to it the way she might have a few days ago. It’s just there, another thing to notice and then move past.

“That’s the plan,” she says.

She picks up her pouch from the table and adjusts the strap over her shoulder.

“I want to actually use some of the stuff they give us,” she continues. “While it’s still… you know.”

Her dad nods once.

“Perks of being red,” he says.

It’s said casually, the same way people talk about discounts or free entry somewhere, even though they all know exactly what it means.

Riley nods back.

Animals are given access.

Free transport. Complimentary food. Entry into places she’d never normally bother with. Small things, spread across the city, all built into the system to keep everything moving smoothly.

“I’m just going to see what’s around,” she finishes.

Her mom steps a little closer and rests a hand briefly against Riley’s arm, the touch light and familiar.

“Stay safe,” she says.

Riley smirks, “What’s the worse that could happen?”

The kitchen settles back into its quiet rhythm for a second, the three of them standing in their usual places, nothing outwardly different about the moment at all.

Then Riley turns toward the door.

Riley pulls the front door closed behind her and steps out into the morning.

The air hits her immediately.

It’s colder than it looks, the kind of early chill that hasn’t quite burned off yet. It settles across her skin all at once, sharper than it had felt inside the house, and she pauses briefly at the top of the steps while her body adjusts to it. The early morning cold causes her nipples to pebble like it usually did, the sensation small but insistent against the rest of her, a steady, grounding cold under her feet.

Then she starts walking.

The pavement is still slightly damp from the night, cool under her feet as she moves down the path and onto the street. It feels uneven in places, tiny shifts in texture that she’s become used to noticing without really thinking about them anymore. She adjusts her steps automatically, choosing the smoother parts without looking down.

The neighborhood is already awake.

A car passes slowly at the end of the street, tires hissing faintly against the road. Somewhere nearby, a door shuts. A dog barks once, then again, before going quiet. The usual sounds, nothing out of place.

Riley keeps her pace steady.

The pouch rests against her hip, tapping lightly with each step, the strap shifting across her shoulder when she moves. The air moves in uneven currents, slipping along the street and fading again, sliding along the street in uneven currents that come and go without warning. One passes over her from the side, cooler than the rest, and she exhales slowly as it fades again.

She doesn’t try to cover herself.

The instinct still flickers now and then, something left over from before, but it never quite turns into action anymore. There’s nothing to adjust, nothing to hold in place. Just movement, sensation, and the quiet awareness of it.

Mr. Greern is already on his porch.

He’s in the same chair as always, coffee mug in one hand, watching the street like it’s part of his morning routine. Riley sees him the moment she reaches the sidewalk, the shape of him familiar enough that she doesn’t need to look twice to recognize it.

He sees her too.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then his expression shifts.

The usual lazy interest she remembers from before isn’t there anymore. It tightens instead, the corners of his mouth pulling down slightly as his eyes follow her approach. He sets his mug down on the arm of the chair with a quiet, deliberate movement.

Riley keeps walking.

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change direction, doesn’t acknowledge him at all. Her steps stay even, the rhythm unchanged as she moves past the edge of his property and onto the next stretch of pavement.

The glare follows her.

She can feel it without looking, the weight of it different from the casual glances she’s gotten from strangers in town. Sharper. Personal.

She doesn’t turn her head.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter.

A few steps later she’s past him, the porch behind her, the street opening up again into something more neutral.

The bus stop comes into view at the corner ahead.

The shelter is empty this early, just the bench and the glass panel with its faded route map. Riley steps under it and pauses, shifting her weight slightly as she comes to a stop. The surface beneath her feet is smoother here, worn down by years of people standing in the same place.

She adjusts the strap of the pouch again and glances briefly down the road.

Waiting.

The bus stop stays quiet for a moment after Riley settles under the shelter, the glass panel at her back still holding a faint trace of the night’s cold. She resettles, one foot resting against the smoother patch of pavement where people usually stand, the other angled just enough to take the edge off the chill.

Footsteps approach from behind.

Not rushed. Just steady.

Someone comes up beside her and stops a short distance away, close enough to share the shelter but not crowding into her space. Riley glances sideways without turning her head fully.

A guy. Early twenties, maybe.

He notices her immediately.

His eyes flick across her, immediate, the way anyone’s would. There’s no hesitation in it, no attempt to pretend he didn’t look. Just a brief, open acknowledgment of what’s in front of him.

Then his gaze drops to her wrist.

The red glow catches the light.

Something in his expression shifts, not dramatically, just a small adjustment as he takes it in. The look settles into something easier, more certain.

He smiles.

It’s a normal smile. Friendly. The kind you’d give someone you’re sharing a space with for a few minutes, nothing more than that. There’s no softness to it, no careful edge of sympathy.

No pity.

You don’t pity Animals.

“Morning,” he says.

Riley nods once.

“Morning.”

The air moves through the shelter again, a light draft slipping in from the open side and brushing across them both before fading. Riley feels it pass over her, cooler than before now that she’s been standing still, and shifts slightly without thinking, the movement small and practical.

The guy glances down the road.

“Bus should be here in a minute,” he adds, like it’s just something to say.

Riley follows his gaze for a second, then looks back ahead.

“Yeah.”

They stand there together in the quiet, not talking much, just waiting. The space between them feels easy, unforced. Shared, but not intimate.

Normal.

“You cold?” he asks, almost casually.

Riley lifts one shoulder in a small shrug, the motion subtle.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t explain it. She doesn’t need to.

He watches her for a second, like he’s weighing something, then shifts his stance and reaches up to pull his jacket open.

“Nothing says you can’t share body heat, right?”

Riley looks at him properly this time.

It’s not a strange offer. Not really. Not here. Not now.

She considers it for a moment, then steps closer.

Before she can settle beside him, he adjusts her position, guiding her lightly by the shoulders and turning her so her back faces outward. He pulls her in front of him instead, close enough that her chest presses into him when he brings the jacket around them both.

The zipper slides up.

The space inside the coat fills with warmth almost immediately, held close between them, cutting off the edge of the morning air. His hands settle at her hips beneath the fabric, steady and unhurried, holding her in place without tightening.

Riley doesn’t react.

No tension. No flinch. No attempt to move away.

She just lets it happen, feeling the difference as the cold fades from her skin, replaced by something softer, contained. The heat builds slowly where their bodies meet, spreading outward in a way that feels practical more than anything else.

She shifts slightly, finding a more comfortable position within the space he’s made for her.

It works.

That’s all it needs to do.

Warmth for touch.

Riley tilts her head back slightly, just enough that her voice carries up toward him without breaking the closeness of it.

“Like what you feel?” she asks.

The words come out a little awkward, and she hears it immediately. There’s a faint tension in the way she says it, like she’s testing something she hasn’t quite figured out yet.

His hands shift lower.

They settle more firmly at her hips, then slide just enough to cup her, the pressure gentle but deliberate. He gives a small squeeze, not rough, just enough to register.

“Not bad,” he says, a hint of a grin in his voice. “Not much there though.”

Riley lets out a quiet breath that turns into a soft huff, something close to a laugh but not quite.

“Wow,” she mutters.

She shifts her weight again, pressing back into him a little more, the movement subtle but intentional. The warmth inside the jacket deepens as she settles, her body finding the heat again after the brief adjustment.

“I can’t believe I’m letting a complete stranger touch me like this.”

It sounds like a complaint on the surface, but there’s no real resistance behind it.

More like an observation.

The air outside the jacket feels distant now, reduced to a faint chill at the edges where the fabric doesn’t quite seal. Inside, it’s steady. Warm. Contained.

He exhales lightly behind her.

“Perks of being red,” he says.

Riley doesn’t answer right away.

She just stands there for a second, feeling the contrast—cold at the edges, warmth where he holds her—letting it settle into something she doesn’t need to question too closely.

Then she glances down the road again.

The low hum of the engine reaches them before the bus comes into view.

Riley feels it more than hears it at first, a faint vibration through the pavement beneath her feet, then the sound builds as it rounds the corner at the end of the street. The moment stretches just a little longer inside the coat, the warmth held close between them, steady and contained.

Then it’s there.

The bus pulls up with a soft hiss of brakes.

The space around her shifts as he moves, the jacket loosening. The zipper comes down in a quick, smooth motion and the front opens.

Cold air slips in immediately, cutting through the warmth. She inhales slightly, a quiet breath catching in her chest as the temperature change settles in.

Her nipples pebble again without hesitation, the reaction immediate, familiar now. Her toes curl lightly against the pavement, adjusting to the cold that presses back in around her.

She steps forward out of the coat.

The warmth drops away behind her as she moves toward the bus, the morning air reclaiming its place, cooler and more open. The last of it lingers for a second, her body still holding the memory of the heat even as it slips away.

The doors fold open with a mechanical sigh.

Riley doesn’t look back.

She just steps up and inside.

The bus door folds open with a soft mechanical sigh, warm air spilling out from inside to meet the cold outside.

Riley steps up without hesitation.

The driver glances at her the same way the guy had, quick and automatic. His eyes move over her, then settle on the watch at her wrist. The red glow catches in the light for a second.

He nods once.

That’s all.

No words. No pause.

Riley moves past him and into the aisle.

The bus is half full. People scattered through the seats, some alone, some in pairs. A few of them look up as she walks down the centre, their attention brief but noticeable.

A few people glance up as she passes—one smiles, another nods, most look away just as quickly

No one stares.

No one makes a scene.