“Maybe I heard them when I was a kid and I just don’t remember. Foxfire could be digging through my memories, whether they’re ones I’m aware of or not. Rayan took a ton of notes on it, creepy stuff, tracking the way it all changed, the way Foxfire tried different things to get to him. Not the most pleasant thought.” He shivered and chased off the shake with some whiskey. “Childhood is nostalgic. Powerful.”

“Mm-hmm,” she agreed. “Which means it’s dangerous.”

“I know some of this, like the ‘Are you sleeping?’ song. My ex-wife would sing that one to her kid when he had nightmares.”

Rosalyn coughed softly. “You were married?”

“Yeah, you?”

“No . . . no, never. Close, maybe, but it was a disaster. My mother was really pushing for it, I know she always wanted to plan a wedding.”

Edison beckoned her over, and when she came near, he took the tablet out of her hands and dropped it on the table. He looked tired, but there was a new liveliness in his eyes and a better color in his cheeks. Probably from the booze. “You and your mom, you didn’t get along?”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” Rosalyn told him, deciding there was no real harm in being honest. They were all on a suicide mission, why hold it in? “We don’t talk. Or rather, she talks at me and I avoid it at all costs. Never good enough for her, et cetera. I’m sure you know all about it, with your military mom.”

“And dad?”

“We were close,” Rosalyn admitted, eyeing another whiskey capsule. She was going to need the whole package if they were doing a deep dive into her family. “Really close.”

“Were?”

She snorted and dug into the cylinder packet, ignoring his look. “You noticed that, did you? Yes, we had a falling-out recently. I quit the family business over . . . over some serious disagreements. I screwed up, he screwed up, and we both said things you can’t take back, so I left.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” Edison said with a chuckle, tilting back his head. “What work was it? Salvaging? You gotta excuse me for saying so, but you don’t strike me as a lifelong salvager. You’ve got grit, and I guess salvaging takes grit, but you’re holding out on me. That’s a fancy accent for a deep space janitor.”

“I’m not,” Rosalyn assured him, injecting another whiskey capsule and sucking in a breath through her teeth. God, it was nice, more than nice, taking the edge off in a way she wanted badly. She just had to be careful she didn’t go too far. “I just don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“Because?” he prompted, drawing out the word and then drowning it in a sip of whiskey.