Streaks in shades of reddish-brown stop short where one slat of the exam room's hardwood flooring meets another. Jitters force their way out of Elia's mind and down to her legs, where she taps her work boots in steady succession. A weight in her coverall's chest pocket dangles forward: her pocket mirror.

She can rationalize it: she's worried, she's disappointed, she's afraid. Those are more than enough of a reason to pull it out here and now. Then she could curl up on this bench and fall asleep without a care in the world.

One hand curling over the other, she digs her nails into her palm. You have to stay present.

A flurry of footsteps and opening and closing cabinets echo around the barren walls, and the vet — Dr. Lucas — speaks in her irritatingly pleasant tone. "Miss Ramos, I'm done."

The pain from Elia's nails linger. She bounds over to the silver exam table and levels herself with Bamboo's one-eyed glare. "How is she?"

Washing her hands, Dr. Lucas casts her words over her shoulder at the pair. "So her eye is fine. That nasty scratch actually only got the eyelid, thankfully."

Elia pets between Bamboo's ears with a single finger, careful to avoid the black loops of sutures stopping just short of her ear canal. "Good, good."

"I'm amazed that she let me do those stitches without sedation." Dr. Lucas turns back to them, sweeping a plume of paper towels over her hands. "Never had a cat this calm after an injury before."

Bamboo twists her head around — away from Elia's hand — and she licks at another scratch. A scratch dripping with antibiotic gel. The next moment, Bamboo scrapes her tongue along her teeth in between clomps of her mouth, almost like someone trying to swallow a stubborn glob of peanut butter.

Elia's lets her hand hover where Bamboo's head was a second before. "She shouldn't be doing that."

"You're right!" Dr. Lucas says. She tosses the now-damp clump of paper towels into a silver, foot-operated bin. Without warning, she pounces on Bamboo and puts her in some kind of headlock. They wrestle back and forth, but Dr. Lucas wedges Bamboo's mouth open wide enough to swipe the gel out. She releases Bamboo and flicks it into the bin.

Best to avoid any more fingers in the cat's mouth: Elia cradles Bamboo's head between her hands, rubbing at her unscathed cheeks.

Dr. Lucas washes her hands — again — and rummages around in a cabinet near the sink. "It's here somewhere... Aha!" She hoists a translucent cone above her head.

"Makes sense. She's not going to like that." Elia says.

"They never do, do they? Move your hands for a moment, if you wouldn't mind?"

Elia's eyes meet Bamboo's one and the desperation swimming in the sea of emerald tugs at her heart. No. It's for the best, even if Bamboo has been through a lot. She lets her hands fall back to the table.

Dr. Lucas pounces on Bamboo once more — sans headlock. The cat struggles against the vet's grip, but the cone slips over her head and tightens it into place before she can slip away.

Dr. Lucas straightens up and pats cat hair off her scrubs. "Anyways. For the rest of it: the scratches and bites on the rest of her body will heal fine without stitches, but you'll need to apply antibiotic ointment twice a day and make sure she wears the cone. Cats love to lick it off even if they don't love the taste. It's toxic to them, so if you notice any signs like weird rashes or her being lethargic, give the office's emergency number a call. The front desk will give you a full list of what to look out for."

"Anything else I need to do?"

The vet pulls a notebook and pen out of of her scrub's pocket and scribbles. "Nope. Though if she's a stray, it's best to bring her in until she recovers."

"Okay. That's more up to her than me; I don't think windows can stop her."

Dr. Lucas rips the paper out of the notebook and slides it across the exam table. "What do you mean, windows wouldn't —"

"How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, they'll talk to you about that at the front desk. Give them that paper and they'll set everything up."

Heat simmers in Elia's chest: doctors always do this shit. Taking the paper, she balls her other hand into a fist and digs her nails back into her palm. It's fine. It's just how this works. Stay present, in control.

---

The shop sits against the swirling oranges of clouds catching the last of the day's sun. Normally it'd be just a silhouette at this time, but lights blaze out the windows lining the top of the garage. Elia's whole body buzzes. Muscles in her legs scream for her to stop with each step, but she doesn't stop.

Bamboo jerks in her arms, her furry head nuzzling as close to Elia's chest as she can in spite of the translucent cone. Elia tucks the cat into a loose flap of her coveralls and trudges across the shifting gravel of the parking lot. Reaching the garage, Elia collapses back against the overhead door with a clatter of metal on metal. Her body slides down an inch at a time until her butt hits the concrete of the garage's lip.

Her head lolls back onto the metal door with another clatter and she throws her head back into it a couple more times for good measure. It doesn't hurt, it just feels good to let something out. The shop's door swings open and light spills forth from inside, bathing a pillar of gravel in warmth. Except for the cutout of a man in the doorway. "Hey, boss." Otto says.

Her heart jumps out of her chest, running from whatever burglar or demon snuck into the building after hours. Wait: shiny head, tall. It's fine. She breathes in and holds it, letting the cold air seep through the rest of her body. "You scared the shit out of me."

A few crunches of gravel underfoot later and Otto lowers himself onto the concrete lip beside her. "Sorry, boss."

They sit in silence, watching the orange strokes of the sky shift into purples and blues. It's enough until she can move again.

Crack.

Panic sends Elia's head spinning. Where the fuck is that cat going? But Bamboo just shifts in her lap at the noise, still asleep.

Otto offers an open, red soda can to Elia. "Sorry to spook... Do you want a soda?"

A sigh escape's Elia's throat; an ember stifled to nothing but smoke. "Didn't I tell you not to go into my office if I wasn't there?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, but that's where the sodas are."

She jerks it out of his hand and takes a sip. Sparks of manufactured strawberry play atop her tongue, then crackle all the way to her stomach. It's good. Too bubbly and happy and loud for all the ways she's feeling though.

Otto dips his head forward, angling to meet Elia's eyes. "Are you okay?"

She can feel it building. That one emotion swirling in her gut, fighting its way up as a lump in her throat. She swallows and forces a laugh, only managing a huff. "No. I'm a fucking mess, man."

"Want to share?"

"No."

Otto straightens back up only to let his head fall back against the metal slats of the door. They sit together in the silence of wind and tumbling leaves, both watching clouds pass in front of the crescent moon. Even the silence is too much. The lump in her throat swells with each new rushing thought: images of her daughter, her mirror, that damn priest; flashes to Mitchel's words at the diner, to Otto's disappointed glare, to her own hands pushing over that poor woman. She's doing it again. Shutting down. A few words and she can change things, but she swallows at the lump trying to force it and the words bubbling behind them down into her chest.

It doesn't go away.

It boils, whistling out despite her desperate, tensing muscles. Bamboo shifts in Elia's lap again, flipping her head over inside the cone and jutting a furry leg into Elia's gut. That simple movement is enough to break the seal. Everything bursts forth in an odd flurry of relief, disappointment, and grief.

Invisible weight lifts from her shoulders; pain twists her face; tears streak down her cheeks. She cries out across the parking lot of dormant mechanical husks. "I'm sorry. I've been such an ass."

Otto whispers a word. "Yeah."

"I—I don't know what I've been thinking, Duffie didn't deserve that. You didn't. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I keep doing this?"

He stays quiet.

Elia digs her teeth into her lips and the taste of warm iron fills her mouth. "So many mistakes. Hurt so many people..."

More silence.

Did she scare him off? That'd make sense. She drags her head over to look at where he was.

Otto jumps and glossy streaks trail from his wide eyes down to his trembling lips. He wipes at his face with a forearm, muffling his words. "Sorry. I'm just sad."

Her stomach lurches, like his words just hit the brakes and sent her sprawling forward. "I-I'm sorry. I don't know what I —"

His arm falls and his bloodshot, watery eyes stare into her's. "No, not like that. Well, like that, but don't apologize more. You already did that."

"Then what am I suppose to do?"

He lets out a laugh. "I just fix cars, boss." His eye's settle on the moon, but they shift back to her's with a spark of hesitation furrowing his brow. "Maybe you can go to one of those therapists?"

A toddler running into coffee tables too many times; a teenager too quiet for her own good; a full grown woman yelling at her in the middle of a train station. It all flashes through Elia's mind and a fresh tear rolls into her mouth, shepherding each memory out with an explosion of saltiness. "You sound just like her."

His eyes wander away. "Yeah, sorry —"

The lump is still there, making it hard to talk. She swallows again. "No. Neither of you are wrong... You're right. Everyone probably is."

"They could try to say it nicer."

A laugh bounds out of her mouth and echoes off the scrap surrounding them. An actual laugh. It doesn't last, but it doesn't need to. It's enough for now. She drops her head onto Otto's shoulder. "I don't think that would have made a difference back then."

He wraps his arm around her and they just sit, both of them an odd sniffling mess with a cat who doesn't care.