“Hurt us,” Tattletale told me. “Puts us in focus, might get you a thank-you but when they’re assigning blame the jerks in charge are going to like you for it. It’s better to sit back, let shit go down, and then come at them with a folder or a phone full of answers and an ‘I told you so’.”

“If I message them, it’ll help them work it out?”

“Possibly. In small fractions. It’s not like they know what they’re up against even more than we do. Maybe they call and get more hands on deck.”

“…I’ll message her.”

Tattletale nodded for what might have been ten seconds before saying, “Okay.”

Okay.

It was three minutes of driving through roundabouts and one-way streets before we got to Miss Treat’s. A quaint, English-style tea shop. The overhang over the door was snow-dusted with icicles hanging from the plastic ’Lace’. Just inside, it looked to be warm, with doilies on the tables. A mom and her younger daughter were drinking tea, and the little girl had a big pastry on her plate.

Sveta emerged from the car, holding the Old Man steady. I could see how nervous she was, even without the telltale agitation of her body.

“Coming?”

“I think I have to. It’s safest if I carry him, I think.”

I nodded, even though I suspected she’d needed an excuse.

We passed through the doors.

“Good afternoon!”

“Jesus,” I said, turning to the young server who stood just by the door. “You scared me.”

“Sorry about that,” she said. She wasn’t wearing a uniform, except for an apron with lace at the edges and a name tag. “I, uh—”

She’d noticed the Old Man, who Sveta held.

“I’m supposed to ask if you’ve been here before, but—”

“My friend has,” Tattletale said. “Can we talk to the owner?”

“He’s out. His daughter is in though.”

“Can she give medical care?”

“I’m not sure, and I’m not sure if—um.”

“I’m a friend of Parian. I know she comes now and then. She has fans here.”

“I know the name, but—I’ll really have to check.”

“Please,” I said. I still had my mask off and hood down. I smiled. She returned the expression.

She fled into the back, leaving us standing there.

A display case had overly cutesy cakes, and a few mascot characters were positioned around the shop, characters with the softest fuzz around the edges, proportioned so their heads were about fifty percent of their body mass, eyes small and spaced apart. Mischievous frog, sad puppy, friendly mouse. All wore old-fashioned clothing.

I positioned myself so that the little nine- or ten-year-old girl who was at the window eating her pastry wouldn’t see the insensate, bloody Old Man that Sveta carried. She was looking though, and Sveta looked back, meeting her eyes.