After

The cleaners came the next day.

They were expensive. They arrived in a white van with no logo. They brought industrial vacuums and chemicals that smelled like lemons and burning plastic.

They scrubbed until the basement was grey concrete again. No questions.

Weeks passed. The rain stopped. The sun came out, hot and dry.

Meerka was in the kitchen. She was covered in flour.

She was making rotis. Rolling the dough flat, slapping it between her hands, tossing it onto the hot griddle. It was a rhythm.

Ned stood by the fridge. He was drinking cold water. He watched her hands.

-You are making enough for an army, he said.

-I like the motion, Meerka said. It makes it quiet.

She put the rolling pin down. She dusted her hands.

-I am better, Ned. I am. But sometimes I wait for the rug to be pulled.

-There is no rug, Ned said. Just hardwood.

He walked over to the counter. He picked up a piece of the fresh bread. He tore it. Steam rose up.

-You are safe here.

Meerka looked at him. She looked at the flour on her arms.

-You are a dangerous man, Ned. You said so.

-Sure.

-How do I know? she asked. How do I know I am not next?

Ned chewed the bread. It was soft, perfect.

-Because you cook, Ned said. And because I like you.

He put the bread down.

-I don't break things I like.

Meerka hesitated. She looked at his hands, ugly and callused.

She held out her hand. Her smallest finger extended.

-Promise? she asked.

Ned looked at the finger. He laughed.

-A pinky swear?

-It is binding, Meerka said. Always.

Ned laughed again and reached out.

-Sure, pinky promise. No hurt.

-And no lies?

-No lies that matter.

He squeezed her finger, then let go.

-Now, finish the bread, he said. We can’t waste the flour.