morning light

---Jason---

The alarm's insistent beeping drags me from sleep, my hand fumbling across the nightstand until it finds the offending device. I smack it more forcefully than necessary, eyes blinking open to meet the early morning nothing. For a heartbeat, panic surges through me—the blank void of blindness returned—until the shapes of my bedroom furniture gradually materialize in the pre-dawn gloom.

Right. I can see now. Even in darkness. That's still going to take some getting used to.

I scrub a hand across my face, stubble rasping against my palm as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My clothes from yesterday lie in a crumpled heap where I dropped them, the bathrobe hanging crookedly from the back of my door. The clock, once I punch the talk button, reads 6:05 AM.

"Plenty of time," I mutter, shuffling toward the bathroom with my eyes half-shut. The cold floor sends a shiver up my legs, reminding me why I usually wear slippers in winter. Too late now.

The shower water takes forever to warm up, pipes groaning their displeasure at being called to action so early in the morning. I stand shivering on the bath mat, cursing softly as I test the spray with my fingertips. When it finally reaches a temperature that won't give me hypothermia, I step in, letting the hot water cascade over my shoulders with a sigh.

As I wash, my mind circles back to yesterday's events—my mother spotting Grace on video, her less-than-subtle interrogation, the abrupt change in travel plans. They'll be arriving today, not tomorrow. And what will they find? A woman from another reality with bone knives and combat skills living in, technically their, house. Perfect.

At least we've got our story straight. Romanian village. Cultural exchange. Lost belongings. Simple enough, as long as Grace remembers the details. She seems to have a mind like a steel trap, so I'm not too worried about her part. My acting skills, on the other hand...

I rinse shampoo from my hair, watching rivulets of water spiral down the drain. Still weird, being able to see these everyday things that most people take for granted. The texture of soap bubbles. Steam rising in swirling patterns. My own hands, which look nothing like I imagined based on touch alone.

After drying off and wrapping a towel around my waist, I wipe condensation from the mirror and stare at my reflection. Sandy blond hair darkened by water, pale blue eyes that still don't quite track properly sometimes, a jaw that could use a shave. This face that's mine but still feels like a stranger's, even after a full day of sight.

I pull on fresh clothes—dark jeans, a blue button-down that feels appropriately professional, thick wool socks to combat the perpetual chill in my feet. Running a comb through my damp hair, I attempt to bring some order to it before giving up. Good enough.

The smell hits me halfway down the hallway—rich, savory, unmistakably eggs cooking. My stomach responds with an enthusiastic growl as I round the corner into the kitchen, expecting to find Grace experimenting with the stove again.

She stands with her back to me, deftly maneuvering a spatula through scrambled eggs in a pan I don't even remember owning. She's wearing the same clothes as yesterday—my sweatpants rolled up at the ankles, my navy shirt hanging loose on her smaller frame. Her black hair is tousled from sleep, surprisingly soft-looking in the morning light filtering through the kitchen window.

"Morning," I say, trying not to startle her. "You didn't have to cook."

Grace turns, her movements fluid and economical as always. No wasted motion, just perfect efficiency. "I have prepared breakfast," she states unnecessarily, gesturing toward the pan with her spatula. "Protein is essential for replenishing vigger reserves."

I move closer, peering over her shoulder at the perfectly scrambled eggs. "This is... wow. Thank you. I was just going to have cereal."

"Cereal provides inadequate nutrition," she replies, her tone matter-of-fact rather than judgmental. "This is compensation for your allowing me to use the hot tub and showing me its operation."

I laugh, shaking my head as I reach for plates from the cabinet. "Grace, you don't need to compensate me for that. I offered because I wanted you to enjoy it, not because I expected something in return."

She studies me, those intense green eyes analyzing my expression as if searching for deception. "You did not calculate potential return benefit when offering access to your heated water device?"

"Nope," I confirm, setting two plates on the counter beside her. "I just thought you might like it. And I was happy when you did." I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly. "I like when people enjoy things I share with them. It's not complicated."

Grace nods once, accepting this information with the same precision she applies to everything else. "Still, preparation of food is practical contribution to shared resources." She divides the eggs between our plates with mechanical precision, ensuring exactly equal portions. "It maintains balance."

"Well, it's appreciated," I say, opening a drawer to retrieve forks. "Though I was going to eat cereal since we don't seem to have any meat. I can't cook much beyond those air-fried sandwiches, hot dogs, and nachos—the unholy trinity of bachelor food."

Grace turns to face me fully, brow furrowing slightly. "There is an abundance of meat in your cold storage device. I assumed you acquired it, as I certainly did not."

"Wait, what?" I nearly drop the forks, moving quickly to the refrigerator. Pulling it open, I stare in disbelief at the neatly arranged packages of meat that definitely weren't there yesterday—steaks, chicken, what looks like venison, all wrapped with professional precision and labeled with meticulous handwriting that I can see.

"What the hell?" I mutter, removing a package of bacon and examining it. The quality is immediately apparent—this isn't grocery store meat. This is high-end, artisanal stuff. "I didn't buy this."

"The meat appeared while I was in the hot tub," Grace offers, watching me with that analytical gaze. "I noticed it when preparing food after you had fallen asleep."

I set most of the meat aside, keeping only the bacon as I close the refrigerator door. "Well, this is... weird. But not the weirdest thing that's happened lately." I turn the package over in my hands, examining the immaculate butcher paper. "Want some bacon with these eggs? I apologize in advance that I have no idea how to cook it in a pan, though I can do it in the air fryer if you'd prefer."

Grace takes half the bacon from me without hesitation. "I will prepare this portion in the pan. You may use your air fryer for yours."

I nod, strangely touched by her willingness to accommodate my limited cooking skills. "Teamwork makes the dream work, I guess."

While I load bacon into the air fryer, Grace attends to her portion in the pan with practiced ease, the sizzle and aroma quickly filling the kitchen. The domesticity of the scene strikes me suddenly—us cooking breakfast together in comfortable silence, moving around each other in the small space with surprising coordination considering we've only known each other for just over two days.

"So about this mysterious meat," I say, setting the timer on the air fryer. "Any theories? Random meat fairy? Meat burglar working in reverse? Santa Claus with a very specific gift list?"

Grace considers this, flipping the bacon with precise, economical movements. "In my world, unexplained resource appearances would suggest rival clan tactics—gifts meant to create obligation without agreement. However, analysis of meat packaging indicates professional preparation beyond standard commercial sources. The handwriting suggests precision unusual for mass market products."

"Well, as long as it's not poisoned, I guess we shouldn't look a gift meat fairy in the mouth," I reason, leaning against the counter as I watch her cook. There's something hypnotic about her movements—such perfect control, such absolute certainty in every action.

"Poison would be inefficient," Grace states. "If someone wished to compromise your dwelling, more effective methods exist."

"That's... comforting?" I laugh, the sound slightly strained. "Let's just enjoy our mysteriously-sourced breakfast and worry about potential assassins later."

Dawson chooses this moment to pad into the kitchen, nose visibly twitching as he scents the cooking bacon. His nails click rhythmically against the tile, tail wagging with increasing enthusiasm as he approaches.

"Sit," I command, and Dawson immediately sits on the floor, eyes never leaving the bacon. "Paw."

He lifts his right paw, holding it suspended in the air with the wounded dignity only dogs can manage while begging.

"Good boy," I praise, glancing at Grace. "We probably shouldn't give him scraps, technically speaking, but bacon is bacon." I break off a small piece from my portion, cooling it in my hand before offering it to Dawson. "Gentle."

He takes it with delicate precision, then immediately bolts from the kitchen, racing to his bed in the corner of the living room to enjoy his prize in private.

"Does he always retreat to consume resources?" Grace asks, setting her perfectly cooked bacon on a paper towel to drain.

"Every time," I confirm, pulling my own bacon from the air fryer. "I think he's afraid we'll change our minds and take it back. Or maybe he just likes privacy while he eats. Hard to tell with Dawson—he's a complicated dog."

With breakfast prepared, we settle at the table, plates steaming before us. Grace immediately reaches for the salt, adding a generous amount to her eggs and bacon. I follow suit, our shared appreciation for sodium apparently transcending dimensional boundaries.

"May I ask about electricity?" Grace inquires after swallowing her first bite.

"Sure," I reply, curious about the sudden interest. "What do you want to know?"

"Last night, I observed you sleeping," she begins, and I nearly choke on my eggs. She continues undeterred. "The blanket had slipped from your shoulder, exposing skin to the cold air. When I adjusted it, my fingers brushed your shoulder. A sensation like contained lightning traveled through my arm. Is this electricity? You mentioned it could cause harm if it entered the body."

I stare at her, fork suspended halfway to my mouth, trying to process this new information. "You were watching me sleep? That's, uh... kind of odd, Grace."

"I had intended to speak with you about compensating for use of the hot tub," she explains without a hint of embarrassment. "However, you were already asleep. I was not observing for recreational purposes."

"Right. Of course not." I set my fork down, considering how to respond to her actual question. "As far as I know, that's not electricity. At least, not the kind that powers devices."

I could tell her that what she felt is often associated with attraction—the spark people talk about when they touch someone they're drawn to. But we've known each other for less than two days, and my interpersonal skills when it comes to relationships are questionable at best. The last thing I need is to try explaining human attraction to someone who's already confused by basic social norms. Also, the deathoath exists.

Grace must notice my discomfort, because her eyes narrow slightly. "You are concerned."

"I'm just..." I trail off, pushing eggs around my plate. "I'm not sure how to explain it to myself, so explaining it to you would probably just mess something up."

She nods once, accepting this non-answer with surprising ease. "The topic can be revisited when you have sufficient data for accurate assessment."

"Thanks." I take another bite of bacon, grateful for the change of subject. "So, any chance you could walk Dawson again today? The dog walker's hip is still broken, and as far as I know, I can't just ask a magical woman from another reality to come along and fix it."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize they might come across as insensitive given that a magical woman from another reality did exactly that for me. "Sorry, that was supposed to be a joke, but it came out wrong. I meant—"

"I understood your intention," Grace interrupts, her expression unchanged. "Your statement carries both factual accuracy and humorous potential. From you're perspective, a magical woman from another reality did heal your lack of vision, resulting in sight that differs from standard human perception."

"Yeah, and it's actually better in some ways," I admit, leaning forward slightly. "I can see in the dark, which is pretty convenient. When we have power outages and everyone's stumbling around with flashlights, I'm just going about my business like normal." I grin, unable to hide my enthusiasm. "Is it mean that I find that a little satisfying? Probably. But there's a certain... what's that German word? For when you take pleasure in someone else's misfortune?"

"Schadenfreude," Grace supplies immediately.

"Yeah, that! There's a bit of schadenfreude in watching people struggle with something that used to be my everyday reality." I take another bite of eggs, suddenly self-conscious about my admission. "Sorry, that probably sounds terrible. I don't actually want people to suffer or anything." Well, mostly. Those who cause other's suffering, but Grace doesn't need that on top of everything else.

"Enjoyment of situational advantage is natural," Grace replies, methodically cutting her bacon into precisely equal pieces. "In my world, such moments of advantage often represent the difference between life and death. Your enjoyment is mild by comparison."

We finish our meal in companionable silence. After swallowing her last bite, Grace watches me scrape my fork across the empty plate, gathering final bits of egg.

"I should have run the dishwasher last night," I grumble, eyeing the collection of dirty dishes from yesterday. "Have you had a shower yet? I need to run it, but if I do now, there won't be any hot water left."

"I have not," Grace says. "The binding I created yesterday is now dry, but I require cleansing before applying it."

"I won't run it then," I say, stacking our plates beside the sink. "You can use the shower first." I hesitate, glancing at the clock. "Actually, I should probably head to work soon. Mom will be here before noon, but I'll try to come home early if I can."

A thought occurs to me, and I turn back to Grace. "What do you do for fun? Back in your world, I mean."

She blinks, seemingly surprised by the question. For several moments, she says nothing, as if the concept of "fun" requires extensive translation in her mind.

"I..." she begins, then pauses again. "I sometimes track creatures with no intention of hunting them. Simply to observe their patterns, their behaviors." Her voice softens almost imperceptibly. "I swim beneath ice sometimes, just because I can. The sensation of cold water against skin, the silence beneath the surface—it serves no tactical purpose, yet I find it... not unpleasant."

Something in my chest tightens at her admission. The idea of Grace doing something purely for enjoyment rather than survival feels strangely intimate, like she's shared a secret.

"What else?" I ask, genuinely curious now.

"Stars," she says after another pause. "On clear nights, I watch them. The druid taught me their patterns, how they shift with seasons. I know which stars rise when certain prey animals are most active, which constellations mark the time for planting or harvesting. But sometimes I simply... look." The confession seems to surprise even her. "This serves no immediate tactical function."

"That sounds beautiful," I say softly. "Do you have any favorite sounds? Music or instruments?"

Grace's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. "The druid played hurdy gurdy. The sound was... rich. Complex. I found it tactically unnecessary but satisfying anyway."

"Hurdy gurdy?" I brighten, recognizing a way to share something she might enjoy. "Alexa, play hurdy gurdy music."

The device on the counter lights up, a blue ring illuminating as it processes my request. Moments later, the haunting, layered sounds of a hurdy gurdy fill the kitchen—drone and melody intertwining in unique patterns.

Grace's head tilts slightly, eyes widening a fraction as the music surrounds us. "How?" she asks simply, gaze fixed on the small cylindrical device.

"That's Alexa," I explain, gesturing toward it. "It's a virtual assistant—basically a computer that can hear and respond to voice commands. You can ask it to play music, answer questions, set timers, that kind of thing."

"A device that listens to your words," Grace repeats, her posture subtly shifting to something more guarded. "This presents significant security vulnerabilities."

"Yeah, it does," I acknowledge with a shrug. "But it's convenient. And honestly, if the government wants to know something, they'll find it out anyway." I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly. "Just, uh, don't try to buy anything with it, okay? Voice purchases are enabled, and I'd rather not come home to find you've ordered a tactical nuke or something."

Grace nods seriously, as if buying nuclear weapons is a reasonable concern. Which, considering the world she came from? Well it's equivilint might just be.

"I should head out," I say, checking the time again. "I'll try to get home around noon, but I can't promise. Dave's usually cool about things, but this job..." I trail off, feeling a twinge of guilt. Part of me wants to call in sick to be here when my parents arrive, but Northern Edge has been good to me. I can't risk antagonizing Dave over something like this. Won't lie to him, either.

"Your employment security takes precedence over my comfort," Grace states, her tone neutral. "This is tactically sound reasoning."

"That's not—" I start, then sigh. "Well, partly, yes. But I also genuinely like my job, even if it's mostly paperwork." I gather my coat and bag, moving toward the door. "The Wheel-Trans should be here any minute."

"Wheel-Trans?" Grace follows me to the entryway, her head tilted in that curious way of hers.

"It's specialized transit service for people with disabilities," I explain, pulling on my boots. "I've used it for years to get to work. I could probably learn regular transit routes now that I can see, but..." I shrug, not quite ready to articulate how terrifying the prospect of navigating the city with my new sight actually is.

Grace seems to understand what I don't say. "Familiar routes provide tactical advantages, especially during periods of adjustment."

"Exactly," I say, oddly relieved by her practical framing of my anxiety. The sound of an engine outside draws my attention. "That's my ride. I'll text if I'm going to be late. Food's in the fridge, and you know how to use the air fryer now. Try not to burn down the house or stab any mail carriers though, okay?"

The corner of Grace's mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. "I will restrain myself from unnecessary violence during your absence unless provoked."

"Comforting," I laugh, opening the door to the crisp morning air. "See you later, Grace."

As I climb into the waiting Wheel-Trans vehicle, I catch a last glimpse of her standing in the doorway—small and dangerous and somehow vulnerable all at once. Then the door closes, and I'm left with nothing but the hurdy gurdy music still playing in my mind.

---Grace---

The air fryer beeps as the sandwich finishes cooking. I remove it carefully, using the heat-resistant gloves Jason showed me yesterday. The rich smell of melted cheese fills the kitchen, mingling with the lingering aroma of this morning's bacon. The elexa—or Alexa, as Jason called it—continues playing hurdy gurdy music, the familiar sounds creating an unexpected sense of comfort in this strange dwelling.

I examine the sandwich with clinical precision, noting the perfectly melted cheese and evenly browned bread. The cooking temperature and duration were optimal this time. I've made significant improvement since my first attempt that resulted in a carbonized failure. Adaptation to local technology continues at acceptable rates.

After eating my creation at the kitchen table, I find myself drawn to the device producing the music. The cylindrical object appears harmless, yet Jason's warning about its listening capabilities suggests more complex functionality than initially assessed. A potential security risk, certainly, yet he maintains it in his dwelling without apparent concern.

"Alexa, stop music," I say experimentally.

The blue light ring activates briefly, and the hurdy gurdy falls silent. "Alexa, resume music," I try, and the melody continues exactly where it left off.

Fascinating. The device responds to vocal commands with remarkable accuracy. In my world, such technology would be considered either miraculous or demonic, depending on the clan's philosophical leanings. Here, Jason treats it as commonplace, unremarkable.

Dawson pads into the kitchen, nails clicking against the tile. He sits at my feet, looking up expectantly. His intent is clear—he wants more bacon. I retrieve a small piece from the refrigerator, instructing him to sit as I've observed Jason doing. His compliance is immediate, the command integration impressive for a non-hunting animal.

"You may have this," I tell him, offering the morsel on my open palm. "But only because you have assisted in maintaining optimal body temperature during sleep."

Dawson takes the bacon with surprising gentleness, then trots to his bed to consume his prize. His behavior remains consistent—private consumption of high-value resources. A tactical choice I understand well. In the clan, those who displayed their resources openly often found them taken by stronger members.

"Alexa, stop music," I command, deciding to prepare for Dawson's walk. The device obeys instantly, the hurdy gurdy falling silent.

I attach Dawson's leash with improved efficiency, having mastered the mechanism during yesterday's exercise. The dog's excitement manifests in whole-body wiggling, his tail sweeping wide arcs through the air. Such transparent emotional display would be fatal in my world, where predators target the weak and obvious. Yet here, his enthusiasm seems appropriate, even... endearing.

The outdoor temperature remains well below freezing, though I feel it only as data rather than discomfort. The cold air carries the scent of snow, pine, and the metallic tang of carbon emissions from passing vehicles. Unlike yesterday's route, I choose a different path, directing Dawson south toward the ravine but approaching from an alternate entry point. Tactical awareness requires familiarity with multiple access and egress options.

Dawson moves confidently despite the changed route, suggesting prior knowledge of the area. His nose works constantly, sampling information I can only partially detect. Occasionally he stops to leave scent markers on vertical surfaces—trees, signposts, fire hydrants—establishing territorial presence through chemical communication.

The ravine appears different from this approach, the slope more gradual, the tree cover less dense. Water flows more swiftly at this section of the creek, the surface only partially frozen. Ice forms crystalline patterns along the edges, transparent windows revealing dark water below. In spring, this area would provide excellent fishing opportunities.

I allow Dawson to explore within the constraints of his leash, observing his interaction with the environment. Unlike hunting dogs from my clan, his attention shifts rapidly between stimuli—scents, sounds, visual movement. No single-minded focus on prey, just pure sensory enjoyment. His existence seems simpler, more immediate. Hunt, eat, sleep, seek affection. Basic needs met without constant vigilance.

What would such an existence feel like? The question forms unbidden as I watch him investigate a particularly interesting tree root. To move through the world without constant threat assessment, without calculating survival probabilities for each decision, without the weight of the death oath or the clan's expectations. The concept is so foreign I can barely conceptualize it.

After sufficient exercise, I direct Dawson back toward Jason's dwelling, choosing yet another route to expand my mental map of the area. This path takes us past several similar houses, their designs varying slightly but following the same basic structural principles. Humans visible through windows engage in morning activities—drinking from mugs, staring at glowing rectangles, preparing to exit into the cold.

As we approach Jason's driveway, I notice an unfamiliar vehicle parked beside the house. Black, approximately 2.3 meters in length, with shining wheel covers and a small emblem on the front that resembles a stylized bird with wings spread. The vehicle's presence represents a tactical anomaly—unexpected visitors when Jason specifically stated his parents would arrive around noon.

I tense automatically, hand dropping to where my bow would normally rest. The absence of my primary weapon creates immediate discomfort, though the bone knife remains secure at my hip, concealed beneath Jason's oversized shirt. Dawson shows no alarm, his body language relaxed as we approach. Not a threat he recognizes, then, though his tactical assessment capabilities remain questionable.

Decision: proceed with caution, maintain awareness of retreat options, assess potential threat level before committing to engagement. If hostile forces have occupied the dwelling, immediate withdrawal and regrouping would be the optimal strategy. The creek ravine could provide temporary shelter until Jason returns.

I approach the front door silently, listening for voices or movement inside. Dawson whines softly, tugging toward the entrance with increasing insistence. His behavior suggests familiarity rather than concern. Opening the door requires momentary vulnerability—both hands occupied with key and handle, leaving no immediate defense option.

Risk assessment: proceed. If hostiles occupied the dwelling, they would likely have established external surveillance. My approach has already been noted. Retreat now would appear as weakness, potentially triggering pursuit.

I insert the key with steady hands, turning it with precise pressure. The lock disengages with a soft click, and I push the door open, maintaining optimal position to react to potential threats. Dawson immediately darts inside, tail wagging furiously as he disappears down the hallway.

Two figures stand in the living room, turning toward the entrance as the door opens. Male and female, approximately fifty to sixty years in age, with features that immediately register as genetically related to Jason. The woman's warm brown hair holds subtle silver strands, styled in a practical shoulder-length cut. The man stands slightly taller, with a lean build and the same pale blue eyes and sandy-blond hair I've observed in Jason.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The woman smiles, an expression containing complex emotional layers I cannot fully decipher. "Hello there," she says, voice warm yet carrying subtle undertones of assessment. "You must be Grace."

I remain in the doorway, maintaining tactical advantage while calculating optimal responses. These are Jason's parents—Bearee and Magnen, according to his descriptions. Their early arrival creates significant tactical complications for our established narrative.

"Yes," I confirm, stepping inside and closing the door with deliberate movements. "I am Grace Winters."

The calculated addition of the surname Jason and I agreed upon appears to have the intended effect. Both parents' expressions shift subtly—relief mixed with increased curiosity. Good. Our preparation was not wasted.

"I'm Bearee Stone," the woman says, stepping forward with hand extended. "Jason's mother. This is my husband, Magnen."

I accept the handshake, careful to moderate my grip strength. Human greeting rituals serve important social functions, establishing hierarchies and alliances through physical contact. The pressure of Bearee's hand suggests confidence without aggression—a measured introduction rather than a challenge.

"We thought we'd surprise Jason," Bearee continues, her eyes never leaving my face. "The resort's internet went down last night, so we caught an earlier flight than we'd planned."

Magnen moves forward, his gaze systematically cataloging details about me with an engineer's precision. "Jason didn't mention he'd have a houseguest while we were away," he says, tone neutral yet somehow conveying subtle layers of meaning. The statement isn't precisely an accusation, but it clearly seeks explanation for my presence.

Tactical assessment: maintain established cover narrative. Position appropriate emotional responses to establish credibility. Appear cooperative while revealing only predetermined information.

"Jason provided shelter when I required it," I explain, removing Dawson's leash and coller before hanging them on their designated hook. "I became separated from my cultural exchange group and lost my belongings. He has been... kind."

Bearee's eyes soften slightly at this, though her analytical gaze never wavers. "Jason has always had a good heart," she says, moving toward the kitchen. "Would you like some coffee, Grace? We've just made a fresh pot."

"Yes," I respond, recognizing the offer as both hospitality ritual and opportunity for extended observation. "Thank you."

As I follow them into the kitchen, I mentally prepare for comprehensive questioning. Jason's absence creates tactical vulnerability in our narrative. Without his supportive presence, maintaining consistency will require perfect recall and careful emotional calibration.

Bearee retrieves a mug from the cabinet, filling it with dark liquid that smells bitter yet strangely appealing. "So, Grace," she begins, her tone conversational though her eyes remain shrewdly observant, "Jason mentioned you're from Romania?"

"A small village," I confirm, accepting the mug with a nod of acknowledgment. "Remote. Very different from here."

Magnen leans against the counter, his posture casual yet somehow conveying focused attention. "What brought you to Toronto in February, of all times? Most visitors prefer our summers."

The question seems innocuous, yet contains subtle probing for inconsistencies. Jason anticipated this line of inquiry—parents who notice structural details, who analyze human behavior with professional precision. The established narrative must hold.

I take a careful sip of coffee, buying precious seconds to formulate my response. The liquid is bitter, strong, yet not unpleasant—much like this interrogation disguised as casual conversation.

"The cultural exchange program operates year-round," I explain, keeping my voice even. "We came to observe winter survival techniques in urban environments. I became separated from my group during a snowstorm."

Bearee nods sympathetically, though the analytical gleam never leaves her eyes. "That must have been frightening. How exactly did you end up at our house?"

The question carries subtle weight—specific details require consistent explanations. Jason and I developed these elements of our narrative with care, anticipating parental scrutiny.

"I was disoriented," I say, injecting appropriate vulnerability into my tone. "The streets looked similar in the snow. I had walked for hours when I recognized this house—or thought I did. It resembled a building from our tour. When Jason answered, I asked for assistance."

Magnen's eyes narrow slightly, the microexpression nearly imperceptible to normal human perception. "And Jason just invited you to stay?"

"Not immediately," I clarify, recognizing the implied question about his son's judgment. "He offered to call local authorities, contact numbers for shelters. When those options proved unavailable due to the storm, he provided temporary shelter."

Bearee exchanges a quick glance with her husband—a silent communication whose meaning I cannot fully decipher. "That sounds like Jason," she says finally, her smile warming slightly. "He's always been one to help first and ask questions later."

"Indeed," I agree, acknowledging this assessment of Jason's character as accurate based on my limited but intense observation of him. "He has been... considerate."

The conversation continues—careful questions requiring equally careful answers. Where exactly in Romania. What the cultural exchange entails. How I'm adjusting to Toronto. Each response must align perfectly with our established framework while allowing for natural elaboration.

Throughout this verbal sparring disguised as friendly conversation, I maintain optimal situational awareness. Bearee's body language suggests professional assessment rather than maternal concern, though both elements are present. Magnen's gaze continues its methodical inventory of the kitchen, noting the two plates in the sink, the air fryer positioned differently than before their departure.

Parents, I realize with growing certainty, represent far more formidable tactical challenges than simple combat opponents. Their weapons are subtle—carefully crafted questions, observational skills honed by decades of practical application, intimate knowledge of their territory and its normal patterns.

As I sip the bitter coffee and navigate this complex social battlefield, I find myself wishing, for the first time since arriving in this strange world, that Jason would return sooner rather than later. His presence would provide tactical advantage through shared narrative responsibility. But beyond that, I simply... want him here.

The revelation creates an unfamiliar sensation beneath my ribs—not pain, not fear, but something adjacent to both. Something I lack adequate terminology to define.

I maintain perfect composure as Bearee refills my coffee mug, asking about my experience with Canadian winters compared to Romania's. But beneath this calm exterior, my mind calculates and recalculates, adjusting to this unexpected development with the same precision I would apply to any survival scenario.

Jason's parents have arrived early. Our carefully constructed narrative faces its first significant test. And I find myself, for perhaps the first time in memory, hoping for another's arrival not for tactical advantage alone, but for reasons I cannot fully articulate even to myself.

The coffee grows cold in my hands as the questioning continues.

---Jason---

The Wheel-Trans drops me off at Northern Edge's main entrance, and I take a moment to appreciate the building in the clear morning light. There's something about the rustic timber frame against the pristine snow that never fails to hit me—though today it carries an extra punch since I'm actually seeing it with my own eyes rather than building a mental picture from Dave's enthusiastic descriptions.

My boots crunch satisfyingly in the fresh snow as I make my way toward the entrance. The door swings open before I reach it, and Mike Thompson nearly barrels into me, his arms loaded with survival gear.

"Whoa, Stone! Sorry about that," he says, shifting his pile of equipment to see around it better. "Didn't see you there."

I resist the urge to say "Funny, I didn't see you either" because technically, I did see him—in perfect detail, down to the coffee stain on his collar and the fraying edge of his woolen hat. I'm still getting used to noticing these things. Also, it would have been a dick move, and I O this man better than that.

"No problem," I reply instead, taking a small step back. "Heavy load there."

"Bay Street bankers," Mike says with an exaggerated eye roll. "Dave's making them build shelters using only what they can carry on their backs. Should be good for a laugh when Mr. Armani tries to cut branches with his platinum credit card."

I chuckle, genuinely amused by the mental image. "Take pictures for me," I say automatically, then wince internally at my choice of words.

Mike doesn't seem to notice the slip as he shoulders past me. "Will do. Carter's in a mood, by the way. Somebody misplaced his field trauma kit, and he's threatening to use the culprit as a demonstration model for his improvised tourniquet lesson."

"Great. Just what I needed today," I mutter as Mike disappears down the path toward the training grounds.

Inside, the main lodge is comfortably warm, the massive stone fireplace already crackling with a freshly built fire. The smell of pine, smoke, and coffee creates the familiar scent profile I've always associated with Northern Edge. But now I can see the high timber ceiling, the carefully preserved animal mounts on the walls that aren't that moose head, and the intricate grain patterns in the wooden floor. It's almost overwhelming.

I make my way to the administration office, carefully timing my steps and movements to match my usual blind navigation patterns. It would be too easy to move with newfound confidence, to react to visual cues instead of sound and touch. I can't risk anyone noticing such a fundamental change, not when they all noticed it yesterday. Once is fine, twice, well. All that shame on you and shame on me stuff.

Dave's booming voice reaches me before I even touch the office door.

"Stone! Just the man I wanted to see." His massive frame fills the doorway as he swings it open, clapping a hand on my shoulder that nearly sends me sprawling. "Got those registration forms for the weekend advanced course?"

"Should be on the shared drive," I reply, steadying myself. "Sent them there yesterday after finishing the last batch."

Dave steers me into the office with that gentle forcefulness that's uniquely his—not treating me like I'm made of glass, but not expecting me to navigate unfamiliar spaces with perfect confidence either. It's always been one of the things I appreciate most about working here; Dave respects limitations without defining people by them.

"You're a goddamn miracle worker," he says, dropping into his creaky desk chair. "Two months' worth of paperwork in two days? Carter was ready to bet his favorite trauma shears you'd need at least a week."

I shrug, settling into my own chair and booting up the computer. "Just trying to keep things running smoothly."

"Speaking of smooth," Dave says, leaning forward with that tone that indicates he's about to pry, "How's everything at home? Parents still in Mexico?"

My fingers freeze momentarily over the keyboard. Dave's too perceptive sometimes, which is why he's so good at what he does—reading people, situations, environments. It's what keeps idiots in designer hiking boots alive when they've convinced themselves they're wilderness experts after watching two survival shows.

"They're coming home today," I say, aiming for casual. "Changed their plans, actually. They'll probably be at the house when I get back."

Dave makes a noncommittal humming sound that somehow manages to convey skepticism, curiosity, and an invitation to continue all at once.

"What?" I ask, though I already know where this is going.

"Nothing," he says in a way that clearly means something. "Just not like you to be checking your phone every five minutes, is all."

I slip my phone back into my pocket, not even realizing I'd taken it out again. Dammit. "Rebecca broke her hip, so I had to find someone else to walk Dawson," I explain, which is technically true. "Just making sure he's okay."

"Mmm-hmm," Dave says, the sound dripping with disbelief. "And this someone wouldn't happen to be the same reason you're wound tighter than a two-dollar watch today? The one you were doing that thousand yard stare about yesterday?"

I swivel my chair toward him, forgetting momentarily that I shouldn't be able to locate him visually. I quickly adjust, facing slightly off-center as I'd normally do. "What are you getting at, Dave?"

"Just that Mike mentioned your parents were out of town, and now you've got someone walking your dog who's got you checking your phone like a teenager waiting for prom results." He leans back, the chair protesting beneath his substantial weight. "Don't take this the wrong way, Stone, but you've never struck me as the type to call in dog walkers. You usually bring Dawson here when Rebecca can't handle him."

I sigh, knowing Dave well enough to recognize he won't let this go. "Her name is Grace," I admit, figuring a partial truth is better than an obvious lie. "She's... staying with me for a bit while she gets settled in Toronto."

Dave's eyebrows shoot up, a detail I shouldn't be able to see but can't help noticing. "Well, well, well. Jason Stone has a houseguest. And here I thought you were married to that paperwork."

"It's not like that," I say quickly, feeling heat creep up my neck. "She needed a place to stay, I had room. End of story."

"Sure it is," Dave replies, his grin audible in his voice. "That why you're sitting here looking like you'd rather be anywhere else right now?"

I turn back to my computer, buying time while I figure out how to respond. The truth is, I am worried about Grace being alone with my parents. Not because I think she'll hurt them—death oath notwithstanding, I genuinely don't believe she would—but because my mother will absolutely interrogate her until she finds inconsistencies in our hastily constructed backstory.

"I'm just..." I trail off, then decide honesty might be my best strategy here. "My parents are probably getting home early today, and Grace isn't great with people. Like, really not great. She's been through some stuff, and social interactions are... challenging for her."

Dave's chair creaks as he leans forward again. "And you're worried your folks might not understand?"

"My mom's a child psychologist," I explain. "She analyzes people for a living. Grace is... direct. Blunt. She doesn't understand or care about social niceties. I'm afraid my mom's going to think there's something wrong with her, or worse, that she's somehow taking advantage of me."

"Is she?" Dave asks, his tone growing serious. "Taking advantage, I mean."

"No," I reply without hesitation. "If anything, it's the other way around. She's teaching me things, helping around the house. She made breakfast this morning." I smile despite myself, remembering the perfectly cooked eggs and how seriously she took the task. "She's just different. Not good with the whole small talk thing."

"Sounds like you should be there when your parents arrive," Dave observes. "Run interference a bit."

I nod, the worry I've been suppressing all morning finally surfacing. "Yeah, but I can't just bail on work. We've got three groups today, and all their paperwork needs processing."

"Stone," Dave says, his voice taking on that no-nonsense tone he uses with particularly stubborn trainees, "you've done two months' worth of paperwork in two days. If you disappeared for a week, we'd still be ahead of schedule."

I open my mouth to protest, but Dave cuts me off.

"Look, I can drive you home when you're ready. Carter's handling the weekend advanced course registration, and Mike's got the corporate team-building group well in hand." He grins, showing teeth. "Besides, I want to meet this woman who's got you so worked up."

"Dave," I groan, "that's really not necessary—"

"Consider it payment for all the overtime you've been putting in," he says firmly. "You've been good for us, Stone. All of us. Hell, even Carter would admit it if he didn't learn to never admit weakness from Revenna."

As if summoned by his name, Carter appears in the doorway, his military-straight posture unmistakable even to someone who supposedly can't see him.

"Speaking of the devil," Dave says cheerfully. "Carter, tell Stone he deserves an afternoon off."

Carter snorts, the sound conveying volumes of carefully cultivated disdain the man must have practissed over decades. "Personnel management isn't my department, Dave." he says, though after a moment adds grudgingly, "Though I suppose the administration office would continue functioning in your absence for a few hours. Assuming nothing catches fire, which is never guaranteed with Dave in the building."

Coming from Carter, this is practically a tearful plea for me to take care of myself.

"See?" Dave says triumphantly. "Even the medical gorgon agrees. Though now that you're here, Carter, quick question—thinking of changing up the role-playing campaign. Space pirates getting a bit stale. Thought maybe we could try something more beginner-friendly. Medieval fantasy, magic, swords, that sort of thing."

Carter grimaces, which for him is the equivalent of throwing a tantrum. "Sergeant Blackwood would not approve of abandoning the current mission parameters mid-campaign. He specifically noted in the General's log that maintaining mission continuity was essential for team cohesion." Before: "also, is this just because you want to play Ragnar the axe-wielding self-insert again?"

I can't help but smile at the mention of Carter's TTRPG character, the impossibly strict military non-com he plays with such enthusiasm in Dave's biweekly game nights. "Actually, a fantasy setting might be fun," I find myself saying. "Grace would probably enjoy that more than space pirates, if she were interested in joining."

Dave's eyes light up like I've just offered him a lifetime supply of his favorite whiskey. "Your mysterious housemate games? Even better! Bring her along to the next session. No better way to get to know someone than watching them decide whether to slay the dragon or negotiate with it."

I immediately regret bringing it up. The last thing I need is Grace joining game night and casually mentioning how she used to hunt actual dragons in her home world. Which, well. I'd not be surprised if she did casually kill dragons, considering. "I'll ask her," I say noncommittally. "She might not be interested."

"Everyone's interested in pretending to be someone else for a while," Dave says, tone growing contemplative. "Sometimes it's the only way to figure out who you really are."

Carter makes an impatient noise. "If we're making staffing adjustments, I need to know now. The advanced medical training module begins in twenty minutes, and I need to prepare the fake blood if Stone won't be assisting."

"Go do your bloody work, you fucking vampire," Dave says with a laugh while waving him off. "Stone's got another hour of paperwork to finish, then I'm driving him home."

Carter nods once, sharply, and disappears down the hall, his perfectly polished boots clicking against the hardwood while muttering about what Revenna would do to him if he ever decided to become a vampire since he wouldn't be her medic anymore, dam it."

"You really don't have to drive me," I try again, though I can already tell from Dave's expression that he's not going to budge.

"Stone," he says, uncharacteristically gentle, "in the two years you've worked here, you've never once asked for time off. Not even when you had that flu that had you coughing up what looked like small rodents. Let me do this one thing, alright?"

I sigh, accepting defeat. "Alright. Let me call Wheel-Trans and cancel my pickup."

Dave claps his hands together, the sound like a gunshot in the small office. "Excellent! Finish whatever you need to do, and we'll head out before lunch. I promise not to embarrass you too much in front of your lady friend."

"She's not my—" I start, then give up. "Just... be prepared. She's not like most people you've met."

Dave laughs, a booming sound that fills the small space. "Son, I've spent thirty years teaching city folks how not to die in the woods. I've met every type of person there is, from tech billionaires who can't open a can without an app to grandmothers who could survive nuclear winter with nothing but a hairpin and a bad attitude. Your friend doesn't scare me."

If only he knew. Grace could probably teach our entire staff things about survival that would make even Dave's extensive knowledge seem elementary. I turn back to my computer, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand rather than worrying about what might be happening at home or just thinking about Grace in general.

An hour later, I've processed the last of the paperwork, updated the registration database, and prepared next week's equipment requisition forms. Dave appears in the doorway, car keys jingling in his massive hand.

"Ready to roll, Stone?"

I nod, shutting down my computer and gathering my things. "Thanks for this, Dave. I owe you one."

"Consider us even for all the weekends you've covered when I've gone fishing," he says, leading the way to the parking lot.

Dave's truck is exactly what you'd expect from a guy like him—enormous, slightly beat-up, with enough survival gear in the back to outfit a small expedition, and I know that last because he has. Multiple times. He helps me navigate into the passenger seat out of habit, and I have to remind myself to act like I need the assistance.

As we pull away from Northern Edge, I can't help glancing back at the building. Even after two years, it still feels like home in many ways—a place where my disability never defined me, where people valued my contributions rather than focusing on my limitations.

"You know," Dave says as we merge onto the highway, "whatever's going on with this Grace woman, you can talk to me about it. No judgment."

I turn toward him, studying his profile. Dave Erikson is a mountain of a man, with a salt-and-pepper beard that makes him look like a Viking elder and hands that could probably crush rocks. But his eyes hold genuine concern, and not for the first time, I find myself grateful for his friendship.

"It's complicated," I admit, which might be the understatement of the century. "Grace is... from somewhere very different. She doesn't understand a lot of things about how we do things here."

"Immigrant?" Dave asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Something like that," I reply, choosing my words carefully. "She comes from a place where survival is everything. Where showing weakness gets you killed. She's having trouble adjusting to the idea that not everything is a life-or-death situation here."

Dave nods thoughtfully. "I've met people like that. Usually military, sometimes refugees from conflict zones. They carry it with them—that constant vigilance, the inability to relax. Takes time to unlearn those survival mechanisms."

His insight surprises me, though it shouldn't. Dave's spent decades observing human behavior in crisis situations. Of course he'd understand adaptation struggles.

"Yeah," I agree. "That's Grace. Always assessing threats, calculating advantages. She's getting better, but my parents..." I trail off, not sure how to explain my concerns without revealing too much.

"Parents have a way of complicating things," Dave says knowingly. "Mine never did understand why I chose to live in a cabin with no running water for five years. Thought I'd lost my mind."

I laugh despite my growing anxiety. "Did you? Lose your mind, I mean?"

"Nah," Dave grins. "Found it, more like. Sometimes you need to strip everything away to figure out what really matters." He glances at me briefly. "Maybe that's what your Grace is doing. Figuring out what matters in this new world of hers."

The phrase "new world" hits closer to the truth than Dave could possibly know. I fall silent, watching the familiar Toronto suburbs slide past through the slightly opened window, each one more visible to me than they've ever been before.

By the time we pull up in front of my house, my stomach is in knots. My parents' car sits in the driveway, confirming my worst fears. They've been home for hours now, with plenty of time to thoroughly interrogate Grace.

"Nice place," Dave comments as he parks at the curb. "Your folks have good taste."

"They designed it themselves," I tell him, a fact I've always been proud of. "Dad's an architectural engineer. Every doorway and hallway was built with my needs in mind." I reflexively suppress the flare of self-loathing that they had to do all that just for me, though. Dave doesn't need to know that part.

Dave nods approvingly. "Smart. Function over form, though they managed both pretty well."

We approach the front door, and I find myself hesitating before inserting my key. "Just... remember what I said about Grace being direct, okay?"

"Stone," Dave says with exaggerated patience, "I once had a client who insisted on referring to me exclusively as 'Forest Daddy' for an entire three-day excursion. I think I can handle direct."

I'm still laughing when the door swings open, revealing my mother's surprised face.

"Jason!" she exclaims, eyes darting between me and Dave. "We thought you'd be at work until this evening."

"Got off early," I explain, gesturing to my companion. "Mom, this is Dave Erikson, my boss at Northern Edge. Dave, this is my mother, Dr. Bearee Stone."

Dave extends a massive hand, which my mother shakes with professional composure despite the size difference. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Stone. Your son is one of the best administrators we've ever had at the school."

"Please, call me Bearee," my mother says with practiced warmth, though I can see the analytical gears turning behind her smile. "Come in, both of you. Magnen just put on a fresh pot of coffee."

We follow her inside, and I immediately scan the living room for Grace. She's nowhere to be seen, which puts me even more on edge. Has she retreated to the guest room? Or worse, has she decided to leave altogether?

"Your father's in the kitchen with your friend," Mom says, answering my unasked question with that uncanny perception she's always had. There's a slight emphasis on "friend" that makes my shoulders tense.

Sure enough, as we enter the kitchen, I find my father and Grace sitting at the table, coffee mugs before them. Grace looks remarkably composed, though I can read the subtle signs of tension in her posture—the slightly too-straight spine, the carefully controlled stillness that reminds me of a predator deciding whether to strike or retreat.

"Jason," Dad says, rising to greet me. We hug thightly for a few seconds before dad extends a hand to Dave. "Magnen Stone. Good to meet you."

"Dave Erikson," Dave replies, matching my father's firm handshake. "Hope you had a good trip."

"Mexico was lovely," Dad says diplomatically, though I catch the hint of strain in his voice. "Warmer than Toronto in February, at any rate."

My attention shifts back to Grace, who hasn't moved from her position at the table. Her green eyes meet mine, and I see something there I've never noticed before—uncertainty.

"Hey," I say, moving toward her with what I hope is something reassuring. "How's it going?"

"Your parents arrived earlier than anticipated," she states, her voice carefully neutral. "We have been conversing."

The understatement makes me want to either laugh or scream. I can only imagine what that "conversation" entailed, given my mother's professional interrogation skills and Grace's tendency toward brutal honesty.

"I see you've met Grace," I say to Dave, who's watching our interaction with undisguised curiosity.

"Not yet," he replies cheerfully, moving forward with hand extended. "Dave Erikson. I run the survival school where Jason works."

Grace rises with fluid grace, accepting his handshake with precise pressure. "Grace Winters," she introduces herself, using our agreed-upon surname without hesitation. "You teach survival techniques."

It's not a question but a statement of fact. Dave's eyebrows rise slightly, but his smile doesn't falter.

"That I do," he confirms. "For over thirty years now. Taught everything from basic firemaking to advanced wilderness navigation."

Grace studies him with that predatory focus that always makes me think of a hawk assessing a field mouse. "Your hands show evidence of practical experience rather than theoretical knowledge. The calluses suggest frequent use of bladed tools and friction-based fire starting methods."

Dave laughs, delighted rather than unnerved by her assessment. "Sharp eye! Most of my city clients couldn't tell a bow drill from a birthday candle." He examines his own palms with newfound interest. "Thirty years of making fire the hard way leaves its mark, that's for sure."

I catch my mother's expression—a mixture of professional curiosity and parental concern—and know I need to intervene before this turns into an impromptu therapeutic assessment.

"Dave was kind enough to drive me home," I explain, moving to pour myself a cup of coffee. "Thought I might be needed here, what with everyone arriving home earlier than expected."

"That was thoughtful," Mom says, her tone suggesting she's filing this information away for later analysis. "We were just getting to know Grace. She's been telling us about her village in Romania."

The slight emphasis on "Romania" tells me everything I need to know. My mother doesn't believe a word of our cover story. Fantastic.

"Small place," I add, desperately trying to maintain the narrative since, the fuck else am I going to do? "Very traditional lifestyle."

"So I gathered," Mom replies, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Grace was just explaining their winter survival techniques. Quite fascinating."

Oh god. What has Grace told them? Images of throat-ripping and gutting flash through my mind, and I nearly choke on my coffee.

"Nothing too detailed," Grace says, and I could swear there's a hint of amusement in her otherwise neutral expression. "Just basic principles of maintaining body temperature in extreme conditions."

Dave perks up immediately. "Now that's a topic close to my heart! What's your approach to layering systems? I'm a firm believer in the moisture-wicking base layer, insulating mid-layer, waterproof shell combination myself, but there are some interesting alternatives in extreme conditions."

And just like that, Dave and Grace are deep in a discussion about moisture management and heat retention that somehow completely bypasses any mention of bone knives or vigger. I catch my father's eye over the rim of my coffee cup, silently pleading for help.

Dad clears his throat, effectively interrupting the increasingly technical conversation. "Dave, I understand you run a survival school. Seems like a fascinating operation. Would you mind telling me a bit about it? The engineering aspects of your facilities interest me."

Bless my father and his ability to redirect conversations with architectural questions. Dave launches enthusiastically into a description of Northern Edge's main lodge and training grounds, allowing me to sidle closer to Grace.

"You okay?" I murmur, keeping my voice low enough that my parents can't overhear.

"Your mother has significant interrogation skills," Grace replies quietly. "She would make an excellent clan leader."

I suppress a snort of laughter. "Yeah, she's pretty thorough. Did she give you a hard time?"

"She attempted to identify inconsistencies in our narrative," Grace states. "I maintained the agreed-upon framework while adding appropriate cultural details based on the Romanian village concept. However, I do not believe she accepts our explanation."

"What gave it away?" I ask, genuinely curious about where our carefully constructed story fell apart.

"Your mother possesses exceptional observational capabilities," Grace says with something approaching respect. "She noted that my accent does not match typical Romanian speech patterns, and questioned how I learned English with such proficiency despite coming from a remote village."

"What did you tell her?"

"That our village had a visiting English teacher for several years," Grace replies promptly. "I explained my atypical accent as the result of learning from this single source rather than through standard educational channels."

I'm impressed by her quick thinking. "Smart. What else?"

"She observed that I navigate unfamiliar technology with unusual adaptability for someone supposedly from a traditional background." A tiny furrow appears between Grace's eyebrows. "I may have misjudged appropriate reactions to common household devices."

"It's fine," I assure her, though I'm not entirely convinced. "Mom's just being protective. She'll come around."

Grace nods once, her eyes flickering briefly to where my parents and Dave are still engrossed in conversation about building materials. "Your father seems less concerned with our narrative's consistency."

"Dad's more willing to take things at face value," I explain. "He'll have questions, but he won't push as hard as Mom."

"I understand." Grace's expression shifts subtly, and I realize she's actually worried about my parents' approval. The thought touches something deep in my chest—this fierce warrior who faces death without flinching, concerned about making a good impression on my family.

"It'll be okay," I say softly. "They're just getting used to the idea of you being here. Once they know you better, they'll see what I see."

Grace's eyes meet mine, questioning. "And what do you see, Jason?"

The directness of her gaze makes my heart skip a beat. What do I see when I look at Grace? A warrior, certainly. A survivor. Someone who doesn't understand social niceties but who makes breakfast to "maintain balance" and worries about fitting into my world. Someone who gave me sight without expectation of reward. Someone who's changing in small, nearly imperceptible ways with each passing day.

Before I can formulate a response that doesn't sound either pathetically inadequate, embarrassingly emotional, or creepy as all fuck, Dave's booming laugh interrupts the moment.

"Stone, you never told me your dad was an infrastructure genius!" he exclaims. "These foundation reinforcement techniques would be perfect for our new training facility."

As the conversation shifts to engineering practicalities, I notice my father watching me with that quiet, observant gaze that's always seen more than I give him credit for. When Dave and my mother become engrossed in discussing the psychological benefits of wilderness immersion, he gestures subtly for me to follow him.

"Going to show Jason that leak in the upstairs bathroom," he announces casually. "Be back in a few minutes."

I follow him up the stairs, grateful for the momentary escape but dreading whatever conversation is coming. Dad leads me to his study rather than the bathroom before closing the door behind us with a soft click.

"Your friend seems interesting," he says casually, though I can hear the underlying question.

"Grace is..." I search for words that won't reveal too much but won't be outright lies. "Different. She's been through a lot. But she's honest, Dad. Brutally so, sometimes."

He chuckles. "I noticed. Your mother's going to have kittens."

"Yeah, I figured," I sigh, genuinely worried now. "Just give her a chance, okay? She's not great with people, but she's been a good friend to me." This, at least, is completely true, though "friend" hardly encompasses what Grace and I have become to each other in just a few days.

"I will," he promises, squeezing my shoulder. "Though you might want to warn your friend that your mother is going to interrogate her like she's a serial killer who just showed up at a preschool."

I laugh despite myself. "Grace can handle it. She's tougher than she looks." Which is saying something, considering how formidable she appears even in borrowed clothes.

As we head back downstairs, I find myself wondering how long I can maintain this charade. Every moment brings the risk of slipping up—responding to a visual cue, navigating too confidently, making eye contact without thinking. But the alternative seems impossible. How do I explain something I barely understand myself?

I hear Grace and my mother in the kitchen, their voices carrying a tension that makes me wince. This is going to be a long day. I take a deep breath, grip my unnecessary cane more firmly, and prepare to continue the strangest performance of my life—pretending to be the person I was before Grace changed everything.

The irony isn't lost on me. After a lifetime of wishing I could see, I now find myself pretending I can't. But as I listen to my mother's protective tone and my father's gentle rebuttals, I understand that sometimes truth is more complicated than simply what is or isn't real. Sometimes the kindest truth is the one people are ready to hear.

And right now, my parents aren't ready to hear that their blind son can suddenly see, thanks to a psychopathic wilderness expert from another dimension who's sworn a blood oath to protect him. Some truths need time. And so I'll wait, navigating this new reality one careful step at a time, just as I've navigated the nothing all my life.