I whistle. “Big hands.” My eyes flick to Lowe’s.
“It’s fine. I’ll figure this coding thing out when I’m there. I can improvise.” He stands, and Alex and I exchange an incredulous look, the words digital illiterate floating in the air between us in Papyrus. Lowe’s incompetence might be healing the rift between us.
“I’ll call you. You’ll guide me on the phone,” he tells Alex, this time with more gravity.
“I’m concerned for your safety. There could be traps.”
“I’ll deal with them.” Lowe puts his hand on Alex’s shoulder, reassuring. I’m about to break my none-of-my-business rule and ask what this is about when Mick appears.
“Dinner is ready. Ana . . . cooked.” He says the last word with a small wince. “And requested everyone’s presence.” He looks at me. “Yours included.”
I frown. “Me?”
