THE SPOON moved before Caleb touched it.
It slid a finger's width across the table toward his hand, quiet on old wood, helpful as a trained dog.
Every head in the kitchen turned.
Caleb closed his fingers on the edge of the table.
"Mine means my hand," he said.
The spoon stopped.
The silver in his palm tightened, then settled under skin that no longer looked like skin but still hurt when he pressed too hard against a chipped table edge.
Hiro, half upright on the cot, squinted at the spoon.
"Good news. You can lose a fight to breakfast."
Caleb let go of the table. "It ambushed me."
"The spoon?" Hiro asked, and Caleb looked at it.
"Small targets are tactical."
Rina made a sound into her cup. It was almost a laugh. At this hour, almost counted.
