Natalia stood at the stove and pointed the spatula at my chest until I sat down. The eggs went into me fast because I knew she would count the bites.
"You chew like a feral raccoon," Skylar said from the counter.
"Raccoons have great table manners, actually."
"Raccoons wash their food in puddles."
"So you admit they're hygienic."
Skylar flipped one of the knives over her knuckles and caught it without looking. She wore a black sports bra and cutoff shorts that had given up on modesty sometime in the spring. Her indigo hair hung in a messy knot, pink streaks falling loose around a face that had zero sleep in it. She'd shoved her headphones down around her neck, and she wanted me to notice that she was listening.
I noticed. I'm a professional noticer.
Emi slid into the chair beside me and opened the notebook to a fresh page. She wrote the date in blue ink, then a timestamp, then a tiny drawing of a cat in the margin that I chose to pretend I didn't see.
