Slowly, Tate nodded. “Okay. I get it. I hear you.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “So, where do we begin?”
Foster headed into the Batcave, calling back over her shoulder at him. “I started making piles on top of the file cabinets in here. One stack of stuff I thought might help us find these other people, and the other is full of stuff so sciency and confusing that I can’t figure out if it’ll help us or not.”
“Okay, well, I got some ramen. We can make a few bags and figure out where to go from here.”
“We don’t have time to stop and have some fancy dinner.”
“It’s ramen. Not all that fancy.”
Foster continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “There are crazy people out there who are hell-bent on capturing not only us, but six other people who may or may not know that they’re complete freaks. You might not give a shit about me, but think about them.”
“I give a shit about you.”
Foster turned and met his gaze, her emerald eyes inscrutable.
“I mean, I care about people, and you’re a person, so…” When she just stood there staring at him, Tate went to the entrance to the safe room and spoke in his most rational voice. “Look, we’ll work a lot better if we eat. We can even take some of those files into the kitchen with us. One of us can cook and the other can read aloud and make notes.”
“I suppose you want me to do the cooking.”
“Nope. I’m an excellent cook. And ramen is my specialty. Plus, providing you sustenance is part of me helping to keep you from turning to the Dark Side.”
Foster rolled her eyes at him, but marched past him out of the Batcave, and picked up one of the bags of groceries. “Nighthawk, try not to be such a dork.”
“Do or do not, there is no try,” he said automatically. Foster was walking ahead of him, so Tate couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard, just for a moment, her laughter.
10
FOSTER
Sunlight streamed into the room, bathing Foster in its delicious warmth. She stretched her arms above her head, curling and uncurling her fingers like she did every morning. And this morning was exactly like all her other mornings. It had to be. Everything that had happened—Tate, the tornado, everything—it had all been a bad dream.
Foster tucked her arms against her chest and nestled into her pillow. Definitely a bad dream. There was no other explanation. She would never go to a football game, and it was just silly to think that she could control people or tornadoes with her words.
And then there was Cora. Her Cora. She wouldn’t leave Foster. She couldn’t leave.
A small sob of realization clenched the back of Foster’s throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter.
Maybe if I don’t wake up, if I stay like this forever, it won’t be true. Cora will still be here, and it will all go back to the way it was.
Tate yawned, sneezed, and yawned again, reminding Foster for a brief moment of the fat orange tabby she’d had as a child when she’d still had her biological parents.
Why does everyone around me have to leave?
But everyone hadn’t. Doctor Rick was still out there somewhere, and so were the six other innocent kids he’d used as guinea pigs for his bullshit experiment. She needed answers. Foster bolted upright, the papers strewn around her fluttering with the sudden burst of movement.
She was in Cora’s office at Strawberry Fields. Cora was dead. None of it was a dream.
“You’re awake,” Tate smiled at her sleepily while stretching his arms overhead, clenching and unclenching his thick fingers in a way so similar to her own that it made her cringe.
“Did you…” Foster studied his makeshift blanket mattress. “Sleep in here? I thought you went to bed.”
Tate hiked his shoulders. “I did. Real late. Then I woke up sometime after three a.m. I dunno. I just couldn’t sleep. I saw you passed out in here on the floor. I didn’t think you’d want to be alone.” He fiddled with the corner of the comforter he must’ve dragged in from his room. “I didn’t want to be alone.” His whisper seemed to press through her and disappear into the hollow ache in her chest.
They were connected through more than their abilities, whatever those might be. She and Tate were connected through their pain. She wanted so badly to close the distance between them, to hug him the way Cora had hugged her, and she needed that embrace in return. They both needed kind words and assurance that they weren’t in this world alone. But she couldn’t will her body to move or her mouth to speak.
Foster sat frozen in the sunlight.
She didn’t know him, and could barely trust him. The risk of getting hurt and creating new wounds far outweighed any momentary release of anguish.
“You snore, by the way.” He stood, brushing crumbs from his sweatpants. “Big Heffalump sounding, ‘nail down the furniture because you’re going to suck it all in’ type of snores.” He tilted back his head, grumbling and snorting in demonstration.
Before she could stop herself, Foster threw her pillow at him. “I do not!” she exclaimed, stifling a chuckle. She couldn’t laugh. Not today. Maybe not ever again. Not when Cora had just … “So, I didn’t really find anything new last night,” she gathered the papers scattered around her blanket. “But I think if we—”
“I think you should eat something.” Tate crammed a half-eaten sleeve of graham crackers back into its box.
“Those are for s’mores,” Foster blurted, rising to her feet. “You don’t eat them by themselves.” She dropped the papers onto the desk and swiped the box from Tate. “We only eat them with s’mores, and when we’re at home.”
And this isn’t home. Yours or mine. It’s just the shell of one, she added silently.