Page 19 of Lupo

"Feel better?" she asks.

"Yes. Thank you." I gesture at the clothes. "These fit well."

"My father was about your size." She dries her hands on a towel. "You look more human now."

"I hate to ask what I looked like before."

She studies me for a moment. "Sit," she says, gesturing to the small kitchen table. "I'll make coffee. You probably need it."

I sit, grateful to take the weight off my ribs. The chair is wooden, sturdy, positioned with its back to the wall. I notice that I've chosen the seat that lets me see both the door and the window.

The realization unsettles me, but I don't say anything.

Isabella moves around the kitchen quickly. She fills an old stovetop espresso maker with water and coffee, sets it on the flame. The smell hits me almost immediately, rich, bitter, familiar.

I've had this coffee before. Many times. I know that with absolute certainty, even if I can't remember a single instance.

"You drink espresso," Isabella says, watching my reaction.

"I think so. It smells... right."

She nods, leaning against the counter while the coffee brews. "Anything else come back?"

I think about the belt. The way I moved. The automatic threat assessment I can't seem to stop. But why would I tell her that? Why would I give her reasons to be more afraid of me than she already is?

"Small things," I say carefully. "Nothing useful. The coffee smells familiar. The clothes feel normal. But no memories. Nothing concrete."

She looks disappointed but not surprised. "It might take time."

"Maybe."

The espresso maker begins to gurgle. Isabella pours the coffee into two small cups, brings one to me, then retreats to the counter with her own. Still keeping her distance away from me.

I take a sip. It's strong, bitter, perfect. My body knows exactly how much sugar it wants, none, and how to hold the cup, how to drink it without burning my mouth.

We're quiet for a moment, and I let my gaze wander around the kitchen. It's small but functional. Clean despite being old. But I notice things, the cabinet door that hangs slightly crooked, the dripping faucet she's placed a cloth under to muffle the sound, the loose tile near the stove.

"The cabinet," I say, nodding toward it. "The hinge is loose."

She glances at it. “It's been like that for months. I keep meaning to fix it, but..." She trails off with a shrug.

"I could fix it. If you have tools."

She sets down her cup, studying me. "You know how to fix things?"

"I’m not sure. But I could try." I gesture vaguely. "You said I could help. Earn my keep. There must be other things that need fixing around here."

"There are always things that need fixing on a farm." She sounds tired suddenly. "The fence post in the pasture. The barn door doesn't close properly. Half the shutters are hanging by one hinge." She stops herself. "But you're still healing. You shouldn't be doing heavy work. You might reinjure your wounds and cause a setback."

"I'm stronger than I was. And I need to do something." I meet her eyes. "You're feeding me. Clothing me. Giving me shelter. I can't just take without giving something back."

She's quiet for a long moment, considering. "My father's tools are in the barn. In the workshop area. You can look through them, see what you can use." She pauses. "But don't overdo it. If you hurt yourself worse, I can't take you to a doctor."

"I'll be careful."

"And stay away from the house when Elena's awake. She's already too curious about you and asking too many questions."

"I understand."