Branches of a leafless willow tree stretch down from above, casting the park benches in a network of interwoven shadows. A phone sits in Thea's lap. With her gut full of nerves and a trembling hand, she swipes around the open text history. It flies by, but stops with a jolt. It's not a lot of messages, only six. Just enough for the window to have a scroll bar. Not nearly enough to banish the mystery that wraps Thea's body in a jittering veil of anxiety; this guy is a certified creep, no doubt about that. She scans the passing crowds.

Joggers, the odd parent with a stroller, a pair of policemen out on patrol. Why didn't she ask what he looked like before hanging up? She takes a deep breath through her nose.

A chaotic swirl of scents almost sweep her into a coughing fit, but she swallows down the sensation tickling at her throat long enough to think. Cranberry from a couple that walk together out of tradition more than love; fresh mulberry from a kid near the playground, who sniffles out a string of lies; hints of yew berries and honeysuckle from a policeman with a not-so-secret secret. Only what Thea expects: a blend of every day people living their lives and the familiar concoction that follows behind every other officer.

Then her. A collection of old scents she barely notices anymore, except for brand new cranberry and hibiscus overtones. Thea's cheeks flush red with frustration and the coughs escape. Doubling over, her body convulses and she rasps for breath; it doesn't stop, so she pounds her fist against her chest.

A man settles onto the bench; just a pair of sneakers and jeans as far as she's concerned at the moment. "You alright?" He says.

Thea sputters out words between her coughs. "I'm — f-fine — thanks."

Before she can get a decent look at the rest of him through clear, tear-free eyes, he whips open a newspaper and crosses his legs. "Good."

Something tugs at a thread of recognition: his voice? He doesn't smell like anyone she knows. An unusual mix of strawberry, huckleberry, and yew dominated by the scent of one of the big seven. Pride ushers in the nutty, warm aroma of sunbaked sunflowers.

That voice though... is it that guy from the call? He'd have said something if it was, surely. The bun-wearing, newspaper-reading man clears his throat; he clears it again, louder.

Thea's hand reaches toward him before she can think, concern squeezes her eyes and heart. It'd only be polite to show the same concern. It doesn't matter that she doesn't know him, right? "Are you okay?"

He flips the page and whips the newspaper again, straightening the pages. "Fine, I guess l have to spell it out for you: it was me who called. Didn't I tell you to be discrete?"

Her chest flips end over end, her arm tenses and she recoils. "O-oh — oh! Yeah. That makes sense, that makes a lot of sense. If you had maybe told me what you looked like or what you were wearing —"

The newspaper doesn't budge. "Let's just get to the point. How accurate is your power?"

Her thoughts screech to a halt like a line drive straight to shortstop and she stutters over herself. "It's never wrong exactly, if that's what you're asking. I'd maybe describe it as subjectively correct more than accurate..."

His hands tighten on the edges of the paper. "How?"

Heart twisting, coiling between strings buzzing with electricity; an absent thumb catches on a hangnail and she scrapes at it. "That's complicated. The church is always changing and something that used to smell like a sin stops or shifts to a different berry... I think how the person feels about the sin might change things too."

"Can you differentiate between people?" He shuffles behind the newspaper and his voice cracks . "Did — did you say berry?"

That twisting stops for a moment: this one will sell it. She swings her head up and down. "Yes. Definitely, yes! That's super easy, you don't have to worry about that a bit. I track down all sorts of people, in fact one of my more recent jobs —"

"Just a yes works. We should keep this conversation short."

She yanks and the hangnail tears free with a burst of heat. "W-why, exactly?"

"A couple more questions first. How far away can you smell someone?"

"Are you talking downwind? I could probably do a mile then if I really try, but I'm out of luck if I'm upwind from whoever it is. If you mean inside a building it depends on if they have central air —"

He cuts her off, impatience taints his voice with a harsh timbre. "Stop, I get it. Central air, thirty-five thousand square feet, large bodies of water if that matters."

More twisting: her heart cries out in pain under the pressure. "I think I'd be able to track someone down anywhere in that building. But I'm confused about the water, what kind of job is this, exactly?"

"Couple more questions and I'll answer. Can other smells interfere with your power?"

The strings snap and frustration gets the better of her. She flicks a hand about in the air. "But you already said a couple more! What's the deal?"

The man folds the newspaper up into his lap: serious and harsh, but he's handsome — probably, as far as Thea can tell at least; spikes of long black hair jut out from the base of a bun near the top of his head. "More came up. Well? What's the answer?"

"Okay, okay, okay, sorry! I guess other smells feel different, like hearing versus tasting."

"Okay, that works. Can you wear something different during the job?"

"Um... no, I don't think so. Definitely not. No."

He massages his left temple with two fingers, silent for a few seconds. "Fine." He says. "Have you ever committed a crime?"

"O-of course not! I was a monk before this, why would you think that?"

"All priests and monks are squeaky clean, is it?"

A shiver runs over her body and lightning steals her focus, flashes of Brother Dale and Frank. She clenches a hand against her cane. "Well no, but the monks at least —"

His eyes dart to the side; a spark of excitement softens his face, makes his hazel eyes almost glow. "It doesn't matter if you had, may have been better even. Thought you might have with the weird stuff your poster mentioned. It reminded me of this old vampire hunting movie that had a priest in it: he broke away from the church and did his own thing like you are now I guess." The spark disappears from his eyes. "Anyway, would you commit a crime? If you had to?"

"Does this really have to do with the job you —"

"Last question, then I'll tell you."

Thea's hand trembles; painful, cold prickles stab at her neck; her hammering heart steals her breath with each beat, like her own body is threatening to strangle her. She grapples for an answer, anything that'll get her through this with a paying job. "Well — I mean — no. Maybe? There are so many laws, I've probably broken one somewhere, right?"

"Stealing?"

"Maybe to eat? Bread and stuff is fine, right?"

"What about money? For rent, maybe?"

Does he know? How could he? "I — I don't know." She says.

He settles back against the bench's backrest. "Then I think I can tell you some details. The job pays enough for rent and a lot more, but it's not legal and it's not risk-free. That's why I'm talking to you. Having someone with a tracking power along gets rid of nearly all that risk."

The needles at her neck spread to the rest of her body, provoking fresh beads of sweat everywhere they prick. She digs nails into the wood of her cane. I knew he was creepy, I knew this was bad. Why'd I get my hopes up. I can't, I can't do this, there isn't a good reason. It'd be selfish, it'd be wrong.