I had not made it halfway to the main road when a car slowed beside the kerb.
The passenger window rolled down, and Sonic Quinn leaned across the seat with a paper bag in one hand and an expression far too pleased with itself.
“You said five,” he announced.
I stopped under the streetlamp and stared at him.
“That did not mean emergency dessert delivery.”
“It absolutely did.” He lifted the paper bag. “Anything below seven requires intervention. Anything below four requires cake, soup, and possibly legal representation.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Sonic’s grin widened at first.
Then it faded a little.
He looked at my face more carefully, and for once, he did not make a joke to fill the silence. The car idled beside the quiet road. Behind him, the dashboard glowed faintly blue. His jac
