SHERRY
The next morning, he was waiting for me at the foot of the main stairs when I arrived.
Most of the pack was already in our usual daily pattern. The scent of brewing coffee and sautéed eggs wafted from the kitchen. Two fighters passed through the entrance hall on their way to the training field.
Eric, with his hands hanging loosely at his sides, seemed as though he had been standing there long enough to no longer appear as if he was waiting and just as if he was standing where he always stood.
He straightened when he saw me.
“Five minutes,” he said. “That is all I am asking.”
I could have refused. The refusal would have been clean and final. Instead, I studied the set of his shoulders and the careful way he was holding his expression, then nodded once.
“Five minutes. Outside.”
