I walk back across the lane with the ring closed in my fist.
Lola has her cheeks packed full of her second skewer, chewing hard and slow like the food is trying to argue back. I crouch in front of her and open my hand.
Her jaw stops mid-grind.
For about two seconds her brain visibly locks up. Her eyes are on the ring. Her mouth is full. Her hands are halfway to the skewer for another bite. The whole machine stalls, and she just stares at my open palm with the food still bulging in her cheeks.
"Slow down. Swallow first, then tell me what you think."
She chews two more times, careful and mechanical, like she's hitting a quota she set for herself before she started. Then she reaches for her canteen, takes a swallow, wipes her mouth on her sleeve.
She leans in.
"Looks like Rhayne's eyes," she says. "But without the storm."
Rhayne, sitting beside her, doesn't react. Or reacts in the smallest possible unit—her gaze drops a half inch to the ring, then drifts back to the lane.
