I picked up her tray and headed toward the door, leaving the spilled food on the floor.

“Tair,” Quanta called just as I was going through the door.

Now she looked like she’d swallowed something sour, pinching her lips together. It shouldn’t be endearing, but there was no helping the way she drew me in.

“I changed my mind. I want a watermelon.”

“A watermelon.” Was she serious?

“You heard me.” Quanta picked up a stick of charcoal and headed for one of her in-progress drawings. “Make sure it’s a whole watermelon.”

“What are you going to do with an entire watermelon?” In all seriousness, I wanted to know.

But Quanta was done interacting with me. She faced the wall and started sketching as if I’d never been there. I hesitated in the doorway.

Holding a piece of charcoal changed Quanta’s whole atmosphere. Her mask slipped when she stared at her drawing, giving the tiniest window into her inner self. Or maybe it was a glimpse of who she might’ve been, if she hadn’t had to fight for every moment she’d survived thus far. Quanta didn’t need my help, but seeing that vulnerable part of her exposed to the world made me want to step in and protect her.

Then my watch buzzed again.

Darren: Get her a fucking watermelon.

I forced myself to move left toward the lift instead of right, toward him and the surveillance room. If I saw Darren in the flesh, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. Even though I was positive I could end him, I doubted I’d make it back to Quanta’s room before the guards got to me, and that wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. It took both of us to timewind, even if she was doing most of the work.

Clenching my jaw, I headed down the corridor. I didn’t mind playing Quanta’s gofer, but I did mind leaving the two of them alone. She must’ve seen something good enough to warrant splitting up. Still, I walked fast, hurrying to get this done and be back.

When I made it to the gleaming chrome kitchen, Quanta’s chef looked at me like I was mentally unstable. “What’s she gonna do with a whole watermelon?”

“That’s what I asked.” And I still didn’t have an answer.

“It’s a special order,” he said as he scratched his beard. “It’d take me a week to requisition one. Unless you know someone in the experimental greenhouse?”

“Maybe I do.” I quickly flicked through the directory of local contacts on my watch. I doubted I had access to even a fraction of the staff working on classified projects, but I’d made a few friends in that first shooting match against Quanta, and I distinctly remembered the one talking about his horticulture research. I scrolled through the names—