I don't care. Mason laughed louder. Tyler's smile disappeared for half a second. There. Maya saw it.
The anger beneath the polish. Then it was gone. "You've been here what, 10 days?" He asked. Mia held out her hand.
My ID 10 days, Tyler continued. And somehow you've decided you know how this place should work. The students at the far end of the corridor had grown to seven. Two phones were visible now, then three. The crowd remained silent.
Maya looked at them. A woman in hospital scrubs hugged a textbook against her chest. A middle-aged man wearing a Riverton maintenance training jacket stood beside the vending machines. Two evening students whispered to one another. Every face carried the same expression.
They knew something was wrong. They were waiting for someone else to be the first person to say so. Nobody was. Maya turned back to Tyler. Give me my ID and move.
Her voice wasn't loud. That seemed to bother him even more. Mason reached for Maya's sports bag. She moved it away. Don't touch that.
For the first time, something changed in her voice. Small but unmistakable. Mason heard it. So did Tyler. His eyes dropped to the worn canvas.
"Well," Tyler said, finally found something she cares about. Maya's heart struck once against her ribs. The bag wasn't valuable. The zipper caught sometimes. One strap had been repaired twice.
The bottom had a pale stain that no amount of washing could remove. But Marcus had carried it before she did. The little silver heron near the zipper had been stitched there by his own hands. Maya could still remember him sitting at their old kitchen table, squinting through reading glasses while he pushed the needle through the heavy canvas. She remembered teasing him about the crooked stitches.
She would have given almost anything to sit at that table again. "Mason," Tyler said casually. Maya's gaze hardened. "Don't." Mason kicked the bag.
It slid across the concrete. The sound was not dramatic, just canvas scraping against a dirty floor. Yet, something inside Maya went completely still. The bag struck a concrete pillar and fell onto its side. The silver heron caught the fluorescent light.
For one strange second, it seemed almost bright. A few people in the crowd murmured. Maya looked at the bag, then at Mason. He expected anger. Tyler expected anger.
Evan's camera was waiting for anger. Maya gave them none. She walked toward the bag. Mason stepped into her path. Move, he grinned.
Make me. The corridor went quieter. Rain tapped steadily against the concrete openings above them. Maya could smell wet asphalt, old motor oil, and the bitter coffee someone had abandoned on the windowsill. Tyler turned Mia's student ID over in his fingers.
You know, Maya, people have been saying you're dangerous. She looked at Evan's phone. The camera remained fixed on her. Now she understood. Not everything, but enough.