John hauls the garage door up with a rattling shove, metal grinding loud and echoing in a way that, given how the past twenty-four hours have gone, makes him want to duck and cover. The door sticks halfway, like it always does, and he jerks it the rest of the way, letting the late afternoon sun spill across the concrete.
For a second, he just stands there.
His mom’s workstation is exactly how it always is—always had been. Scattered tools on the picnic table, the same chipped ceramic coffee cup sitting off to the side. If not for the fine layer of dust, he’d think she was still here.
He shakes himself out of it.
“C’mon,” he mutters over his shoulder. “We’ll be safer here. Before my mom and I went off hunting together, we made sure to lock this place down with all kinds of monster warding. There’s other safe places we can go, but we need to take a minute. Reset.”
Behind him, small rubber boots scuff against the concrete as the kid’s slow, too-measured footsteps tread into the room. John clicks on a couple of the work lights, then pulls the garage door shut again.
Emmanuel takes in the room with just his eyes, barely moving his head. No wasted motion. Kid’s either wired like a sniper, or he’s got The Shining in him. “Sit there,” John says, nodding toward the picnic bench. “I can find you something to eat. We got canned beans and chili, probably.”
The kid climbs up onto the bench with that same strange, ninja-like precision he does everything with. His feet dangle, a few inches shy of the floor. “I don’t think I’m hungry.”
“Cook picks the meal,” John snaps automatically—and then winces. Jesus. He sounds just like his mom. He exhales, scrubs a hand over his face. “I mean… you don’t gotta clean your plate or anything, but you’re gonna try. Okay?”
The kid looks at him, eyes narrow under the brim of that little bucket hat. John can’t help it—something about it makes him grin, makes him think of Gilligan.
“Okay,” the kid says.
“Okay,” John echoes, already turning away. Then to himself, more quietly: “Okay.”
He rummages through one of the storage bins in the corner—his mom’s emergency stash, all canned goods and non-perishables—the cans clinking as he shifts things around. Over his shoulder, he sees the kid pull out that cheap kaleidoscope John had handed him in the car.
He starts turning it, slow, steady.
Click. Shift. Click. Shift.
John almost misses the movement near the office door, but his gun is in his hand before he’s even aware he’s reached for it.
“Whoa—Johnny?”
“Betty? What are you doing here?”
She’s in uniform, black hair pulled back, looking more worn than the last time he saw her. She glances over her shoulder before pulling the office door shut behind her.
“What am I doing here? What about you! Where the hell have you been? You know how to use a payphone? Snail mail? You just went dark with Mary like—”
John braces for more, and he’s got a few words ready himself, still stuck on her taking Mary’s side when she’d been his friend—but then her gaze shifts and lands on the kid.
“…oh. Who’s this?”
Emmanuel doesn’t look at her. He’s still fixated on the kaleidoscope, turning it in the light.
“Manny, eyes up,” John hisses. It’s not his kid or anything, but he still wants him to snap to—stand up straight, pay attention, act right. (He tries not to think about it—how he’ll be someone’s actual father, and soon.)
“This is Betty. She’s one of the good guys. Like me.”
Manny seems to get the message.
He sets the kaleidoscope down and slides off the bench, boots hitting the concrete with a disturbing lack of sound. He walks over to her, straight-backed, marching, and for a second John thinks, absurdly, that he’s about to offer his hand like they’re at some business meeting. But then the kid just stops. Looks up at her. Not shy—just… blank-faced, not engaging.
“Oh,” she breathes, frostiness melting away. “Well, aren’t you just precious?”
Yeah. Cute little bastard, really. Even John has to admit.
She crouches down in front of him, smiling wide and warm. “Look at you,” she continues, cooing. “You’re all dressed up like you’re expecting a rainstorm—”
Her hand lifts, reaching to straighten the front of his slicker—
—and John opens his mouth, but it’s already too late.
Emmanuel moves. Fast, like a striking viper, cracking the back of his hand against her wrist.
Betty jerks back with a startled gasp. “¡Ay, Dios mío!”
John huffs out a short laugh, not surprised in the slightest.
“Yeah.” He lifts his bandaged wrist with a small, crooked, not-entirely-comfortable smile. “He doesn’t let anyone do that.”