I found out at noon.
Not from Damon.
From Rowan.
He came to the kitchen at twelve with the specific expression he wore when he was delivering something he had been instructed to deliver and did not personally find satisfying, which was the expression of a man whose instructions had stopped aligning with his preferences and who had not yet decided what to do about that gap.
He set a piece of paper on the counter beside my cutting board.
I looked at it.
A contract.
Iron Crest Pack letterhead, which I had never seen before, clean and minimal, the pack seal in the upper left corner, the formal language of an inter-pack employment agreement running down the page in the careful precise typeface of something that had been prepared by someone who understood that every word in a legal docume
