“You can’t. But it doesn’t matter.” Milkweed smiled at her. “I don’t need it.” It was just an indulgence, something she shouldn’t have had in the first place. Perhaps the girl had saved her more trouble down the line anyway.
She didn’t look convinced, inching backwards some and clutching at her shirt so tightly her knuckles were turning white. Speaking in a calmer manner took just about everything she had. “N–no, no, I… I can f-fix… sh-should replace it! I– I messed it up., I sh-should. What would you l-l-like for it?”
She had no clue what had been inside, no clue what kind of value it might have held. But she was willing to give just about anything to make up for her mistake, clearly.
Milkweed thought for a moment. What could a junker in Gastown have to offer her, anyway? And then she came to a conclusion. “Car parts. Any. I don’t care how junk they are.” They would be salvageable, most likely, or at the least tradeable.
