Chapter 7: Trust

They stayed at the table longer than either of them meant to. The torn page sat between them, face up. Neither of them had touched it again.

Sam was the one who finally spoke. Her voice was low, careful, like she was testing the words before she let them out.

“So ... that’s what it says. Non-traditional. Rectal.” She kept her eyes on the paper for a second, then exhaled. “Anal. I’ve never done that. It sounds ... painful. And awful. But if it actually works, if it gets this thing out of me, then maybe it’s worth it.”

Chase nodded once. He didn’t look at the page either. His ears were still faintly red. The word sat in the air between them, clinical on the paper and suddenly very real in the quiet of the library. He could hear the low hum of the overhead lights, the distant squeak of a cart being pushed somewhere on the main floor. His pulse felt louder than both.

“It’s only half a page,” he said. “We don’t know what the rest of it said. Or if the person who wrote it was right. But it’s the first thing we’ve found that even mentions a way out.”

Sam’s fingers tapped once against the table, then stilled. The sound was small. She was still wearing his black t-shirt under the open hoodie; the fabric looked soft against her collarbones. He noticed and then made himself stop noticing.

“I’m not letting any of the usual guys near me for this,” she said. “The ones in the alleys. The ones who don’t ask questions. I don’t trust them with something like that. Not when I have to be ... present for it. Not when it’s not the debt driving.”