Page 51 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Half a piece of toast does not count as breakfast. I saw you give the other half to the cat.”

“The cat was hungry.”

“The cat is fat. You are not.” She turned to Noor. “Tell him.”

Noor held up her hands. “Don't drag me into this. I've tried. He doesn't listen.”

“I listen,” Art said. “I simply don't always agree.”

“Agreement is not required. Eating is required.” The dark-haired woman fixed him with a stare that could have melted ice. “You are brilliant, Arthur. Possibly the most brilliant person I have ever worked with, and I have worked with many brilliant people. But brilliance means nothing if you collapse from malnutrition before the war ends.”

I'd stopped walking without meaning to, standing in the shadow of the hut's corner, watching this exchange with something between amusement and fascination. This was a side of Art I hadn't seen before. Not the nervous, guarded man whoflinched at sudden noises and spoke in careful circles. This was Art with people who knew him, who cared about him, who weren't afraid to tell him off.

“Ruth, I appreciate your concern?—”

“Do not 'appreciate my concern' me. I am not concerned. I am stating facts.” Ruth crossed her arms. “You have lost weight since October. Your hands shake when you have not eaten. You make more errors in your calculations when you are hungry, which you will not admit but which I have noticed because I notice everything.”

“She really does,” Noor added. “It's terrifying.”

“It is efficient,” Ruth corrected. “Unlike Arthur's eating habits.”

Art's shoulders had hunched slightly, the way they did when he was overwhelmed. But there was no real distress in his posture, I realised. This was familiar to him. Comfortable, even. The kind of scolding that came from love rather than malice.

“Fine,” he said. “I'll eat dinner tonight. A full meal. With vegetables.”

“And protein.”

“And protein.”

“And you will not give any of it to the cat.”

“The cat doesn't come to the canteen.”

“The cat goes everywhere. I have seen it in Finch's office.” Ruth's expression softened slightly. “I am not trying to mother you, Arthur. I am trying to keep you alive long enough to see the end of this war. Someone has to, and God knows you will not do it yourself.”

Something shifted in Art's face. A crack in the careful composure, quickly smoothed over. “I know. I'm sorry. I get... lost. In the work.”

“We know,” Noor said gently. “That's why we're here. To drag you back to reality when you forget it exists.”

I should have walked away. Should have given them their privacy, their friendship, their small moment of human connection in a place that demanded so much inhumanity. But I was tired and hurting and something about the scene held me rooted to the spot.

Ruth noticed me first. Her eyes sharpened, assessing, and I saw her take in the fresh stitches on my forehead, the careful way I was holding my ribs, the blood I'd missed on my collar.

“Sergeant Hale,” she said. Not a question. A statement.

Art's head snapped around. His eyes went wide when he saw the state of me, and he was on his feet before I could tell him to stay seated.

“Tom. What happened?”

“Caught someone at the fence. It's handled.” I stepped out of the shadows, feeling suddenly exposed under Ruth's penetrating gaze. “Dr Hart patched me up. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine,” Noor said. “You look like someone tried to rearrange your face.”

“They tried. They failed.” I attempted a smile, felt it come out more like a grimace. “I was just checking the perimeter. Making sure everything's secure after the incident.”

“By standing in the shadows watching us?” Ruth's tone was dry. “Interesting security protocol.”

Heat crept up the back of my neck. “I didn't want to interrupt.”