Out Sick

Levity cleared space on her calendar for Hisoka Twineshaft, then went through her day as if nothing was wrong. Except once everyone was assembled for the morning meeting, she realized something was . "Murph's not back yet?"

"Still out." Tippy looked concerned. "Any updates, Angelo?"

"Ah. He seemed a little better. Got his appetite back."

Levity had been sort of surprised when Angelo announced that Murph would be taking a sick day. That first impression reasserted itself. Why Angelo? He and Murph weren't especially close. Wouldn't he have contacted Tippy or even Becca if he needed to call in sick? Yet Tippy was looking to Angelo for updates. And Angelo had answers.

Levity checked her own messages to Murph. Unread.

She wasn't sure how to define her responses to that. Especially when one of those responses had her cornering Angelo in the breakroom.

"He hasn't answered my messages." It came out like an accusation.

"Oh. Huh."

Angelo didn't offer anything else. But he didn't have to. Because she could smell Murph on him. Which meant Angelo had been to his place, had been looking after Murph. On some level, Levity was glad to know her packmates cared about each other, but on another, very dangerous level, she felt that Murph was hers to look after. Even though he wasn't. Not really.

"I'm going," she announced.

Angelo's scent went through a confusing range—worry, fear, relief. He said, "Keep an open mind?" Then his gaze dropped, and he ambled away.

What?

What even ?

Levity was appalled with herself. What in all the Widelands had happened to Murph? What had Angelo been shouldering alone? Tempted as she was to take shortcuts—balcony, rooftop—she thumbed the elevator call button and updated her status to away.

She made it to the lobby and out the door, but she was in no mood for public transportation. So she triggered a few sigils and risked a short flight, pushing herself to speeds that would keep her from being observed.

Murph's building had roof access, which simplified things. Levity slipped out of her heels, dangling their straps from her fingers as she stole up to his door. Angelo's trail was clear enough, coming and going.

Summoning up a smile for the peephole, she knocked.

There were footfalls, but the door didn't open.

"I know you're there, Murph," she said sweetly.

"Go away, Levity."

"Not until I know you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"It's my story. I write the headline."

Levity frowned. Was that fear she could smell? She took a gentler tone. "Say that to my face."

Several seconds ticked by, but the chain on the door rattled, and a deadbolt snapped. Then Murph was glaring at her from a gap too narrow for anyone to get a foot through. "See? Fine. Fit as the proverbial fiddle. Fighting fit. Fit for the gods."

He wasn't terribly convincing. But Levity played along. "I thought we were a good fit."

"Like a glove." And the door opened a little wider. "Why are you barefoot? It's January."

"Let me in, Murph."

His gaze dropped. "Impossible. I'm in no fit state for company."

"I'm not company. Aren't we closer than that? More like companions."

"Companion. From the French. Meaning one who eats bread with another." And he stepped back.

She gave the door a gentle push, and when he didn't offer further protest, she stepped inside, closing the door and dropping her shoes. She mulled over scents that had shifted and strengthened. He stood there, practically cowering, clutching the quilt that swathed him. His misery was palpable. And so was something else.

Levity trusted her nose. Even when it confused her.

And she smelled fur.