“We need shelter,” he said, voice rough, direct, stripped of pleasantries by the cold.
She stepped aside, heart thudding once, hard.
“Then get inside,” she replied, because some instincts never truly di:e.
They filed in silently, twenty-five men and women whose bodies were pushed past the edge of endurance, hands shaking as gloves came off, coughs tearing through chests that sounded far too tight, and Clara’s mind shifted automatically into assessment mode, the way it always did when lives were on the line.
Hypothermia, early to moderate stages, dehydration, shock, all manageable if handled now, all lethal if ignored.
“Sit down,” she said firmly, already moving behind the counter. “Everyone. Now.”
The man who’d spoken, later known to her as Marcus “Grave” Dalton, watched her closely, eyes sharp beneath exhaustion, then nodded once and obeyed, and the rest followed without argument.
Clara moved fast, flipping on every burner, dragging frozen soup stock from the freezer, starting both coffee machines at once, her body remembering rhythms her mind pretended to forget, and when she returned with blankets, she didn’t ask permission before wrapping them around blue-tinged shoulders or issuing clipped instructions that brooked no defiance.
One younger rider stared at her like she’d spoken another language when she told him to keep his hands covered, but he listened, and that alone told her everything she needed to know.
Someone cried quietly at the end of the counter, tears carving clean lines through road grime, and Clara set a bowl of soup in front of her, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder, grounding her without ceremony.
