He almost laughed. He was getting punchy.

“Well, that’s gross,” she said. She unwrapped the rest of the bandage with a wince. Her hand looked bruised and dirty, like she hadn’t had it cleaned at the hospital. Too busy dealing with Lopez, maybe.

She stretched her fingers and sucked in a breath.

“That does not look great,” he offered unhelpfully.

“Just a little…broken.” She made a sound that was both a moan and a laugh.

“You’ve broken it before? More than once?”

“Who’s counting?” She made a face as she walked into the kitchen. She turned on the water and stuck her hand under it. “Shit, that hurts.”

“Was it always from punching people?”

“What?”

“Breaking your hand. Always from punching someone?”

“Oh. Yeah. I tend to get a little too…enthusiastic in the moment.”

He let out a short, completely inappropriate laugh. She cocked an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, I’m just in a ton of pain here.”

He blanched, shifting uncomfortably. “I, uh, I didn’t mean—”

Maisie threw her head back with a laugh. “I’m just messing with you.”

He let out a relieved sigh and laughed weakly.

“This entire situation is too fucked-up not to be funny,” she said.

His thoughts exactly.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as she carefully dried her arm with a cloth. “I don’t have a lot, but there’s some bread and…” She walked to the refrigerator. “Some dry sausage. Oh, and I should eat these apples before they go bad. We had a good batch this year.”

“Sure,” he said, his hunger overtaking his exhaustion at the mention of food. That sandwich from earlier hadn’t stayed with him for long.

She pulled the food out as he sat down at one of the barstools. She put a plate in front of him with a hunk of bread, some sausage, cheese, and half an apple.

He tore off a piece of the bread, glancing at the half loaf left on the counter, wrapped in a kitchen towel. “Did you make this bread?”

“Yes.”

He wondered if he was asking too many questions, if she could tell he was equal parts fascinated and horrified by it all. He was trying very hard not to imagine himself sitting across from every major journalist in the country, telling them everything he’d learned during his time here, but it was hard. He was already rehearsing.

“Does everyone make their own bread?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“No, you can get some at a bakery, if you want. Kind of a waste of money, though.”

“It’s really good.”

“Thank you.”

Her phone beeped, and she pulled it out of her pocket, a smile crossing her face. “Lopez is out of surgery. He’s not awake yet, but the surgery went well.”

“That’s great,” he said, with genuine relief. He’d been very worried that whoever made decisions after Lopez wouldn’t be so interested in getting him out of here.

“We’ll go see him tomorrow, find out what the plan is for you.” She said the words while typing on her phone. She frowned at whatever reply she got, but didn’t share it with Lennon.