“Would you like to work here with me?”

Andrea stared at me.

“We have no clients and the pay is shit.”

She kept staring. I couldn’t even tell if she heard me.

“Even if business were booming, I still couldn’t afford to pay you what you’re worth.” No reaction. “But if you don’t mind sitting in the office drinking motor oil coffee and bullshitting with me . . .”

Andrea put her hands over her face.

Ah crap. What do I do now? Do I say something, do I not say anything?

I kept talking, keeping my voice as light as I could manage. “I have an extra desk. If the PAD comes to shut us down, I might need sniper support, and I can’t shoot a cow from ten feet. We can turn our desks over and lob grenades at them when they storm the door . . .”

Andrea’s shoulders shook slightly.

She was crying. Fuck me. I sat there, not sure what to do with myself.

Andrea kept trembling, eerily quiet.

I got off my ass and came back with a handkerchief. Andrea took the hanky and pressed it to her face.

Pity would only make it worse. She wanted to keep her pride—it was all she had left and I had to help her preserve it. I pretended to drink my coffee and stare at my mug. Andrea pretended not to be crying, while trying to mop up her tears.

For a few minutes we sat like this, awkward and grimly determined to act like nothing was happening. If I glared at this mug a moment longer, it would burst into flames from the sheer tension.

Andrea blew her nose. Her voice came out slightly hoarse. “Do you even have anything to shoot the PAD with?”

“I have an armory upstairs. The Pack gave me some guns and ammo. It’s in boxes to the left.”

Andrea paused. “In cardboard boxes?”

“Yeah.”

Andrea groaned.

“Hey, guns aren’t my thing. If they had brought me swords, that would be different. That’s where you come—”