Mercury didn't look at me when I got in.
Just sat there with her hands in her lap and her eyes on the dashboard, holding herself in the specific way of someone who has put their feelings somewhere manageable and is concentrating on keeping them there.
I sat beside her and said nothing.
The old car ticked softly as the engine cooled, each faint metallic click vibrating through the chassis and into my seat. Outside, the plain's silence pressed heavily against the windows, thick, complete, and watchful.
"He was funny," Mercury's voice broke the quiet first, low and steady. "Did you notice that? He was genuinely funny."
"Yes," I said. "He was."
"Forty minutes." She let out a short, humorless laugh. "I haven't connected with anyone that easily in years. That's ridiculous."
"Yes it is," I said.
