ALESSIA
Logan arrived on the morning of the twenty-second with scissors in his jacket pocket and the expression of a man who has made peace with a decision he is still not entirely comfortable with.
I met him at the door. He looked at me for a moment — the way he always looked at me when he was cataloguing, making sure I was still intact, running the quiet assessment he had been running since I was old enough to give him reasons to worry about me, which had been, historically, quite early.
"You slept," he said.
"Some."
"You ate."
"Jasper made breakfast." I stepped back to let him in. "He made enough for twelve people. I think it's a stress response."
Logan came inside and set his bag on the kitchen counter. The quads had arranged themselves with the collective tact I was beginning t
