---Jason---

  Grace parks dad's truck in the small gravel lot outside Northern Edge, turning off the engine while I take a moment to glance at her in the passenger seat. She sits perfectly straight, hands resting precisely on her knees, her expression neutral as she studies the familiar log cabin structure through the windshield. The crisp February air has painted her cheeks with a touch of color that makes her already sharp features sharper. Then again, since she is the first woman I've ever seen, probably just a tad biast there.

  "Ready?" I ask, my breath fogging slightly in the still-cold car.

  Grace gives a single, precise nod. "Yes. I have memorized appropriate responses to the seventeen most common interview questions, prepared three specific examples of wilderness survival situations applicable to this environment, and identified two acceptable weaknesses to discuss if prompted."

  I bite back a smile. Her methodical approach to the interview process is both endearing and slightly intimidating—like everything else about her. We spent nearly three hours last night preparing, though I'm still not entirely convinced she needs my help. Grace approaches every challenge with the same surgical precision, whether it's learning to use the microwave or preparing for interdimensional apocalypses. Just hope the game people aren't going to start the second one. Or the first one because they'd have a way into our reality and we'd be so fucked if that happened.

  "Remember," I say as I reach for my door handle, "Dave already loves your skills. This is mostly a formality. Just try not to mention ripping out throats or hunting people, and you'll be fine."

  "I have cataloged six alternative phrases to describe combat techniques without alarming potential employers," Grace confirms, exiting the car with that fluid grace that makes her movements seem so predatory.

  As we walk toward the entrance, I can't help noticing how different she looks in the clothes we recently baught, cargo pants and a tactical vest that somehow makes her eyes even more intense. Her short black hair frames her heart-shaped face perfectly, accentuating those sharp cheekbones and the subtle curve of her lips. Mom even okayed the pair of combat boots we baught, replacing the slightly-too-narrow shoes she'd been wearing since I found her nearly frozen on my porch, has it been just under two weeks now? Huh.

  The transformation is striking, though not complete—Grace still moves like a predator, still scans her surroundings with that hypervigilant awareness, still carries herself with the posture of someone ready for combat at any moment. No amount of normal clothing can fully disguise what she is.

  And what is she, exactly? I've been turning this question over in my mind since that first night. Psychopath, she called herself. Ranger. Surviver. But those labels feel insufficient to capture the complexity of the woman walking beside me. She's killed people without remorse, yet shows unexpected gentleness with Kitten. She speaks of ripping out throats as casually as discussing the weather, yet spends twenty-two minutes in the shower simply enjoying the novelty of abundant hot water then apologizes afterwards when I actually get annoyed about it.

  Then there's the death oath binding her to me—the death oath I don't want. The power imbalance it creates hangs between us, unspoken but always present. I've promised myself never to use it, never to command her, but I'm not perfect and words mean exactly shit.

  The front door of Northern Edge swings open before we reach it, Dave's imposing frame filling the entrance. His bushy beard can't hide his grin as he spots us.

  "There they are!" he booms, stepping aside to let us enter. "The woman who made Carter rethink his entire approach to knife skills, and Raj now is of the opinion that 'survival squirl girl' is a term of endearment." Before, with a grin. "I agree on that, by the way."

  The main room of the cabin feels warm and inviting after the February chill, the large stone fireplace crackling merrily along one wall. Mike and Raj stand near the coffee station, both straightening when they spot Grace. Carter remains seated at the large central table, his expression thoughtful as he studies her.

  "Thanks for coming in," Dave continues, gesturing toward the table. "I know the interview thing is a bit formal compared to how we usually operate, but procedure is procedure."

  "I understand," Grace responds, her voice carrying that precise, measured quality that somehow sounds both archaic and military. "Protocols serve vital functions in organizational structures."

  Dave exchanges a quick glance with me, eyebrows raised slightly, before guiding us to the table.

  "So," he begins once we're seated, "Jason's told us you're from up north originally. Pretty remote area, from what I gather?"

  Grace's eyes flick briefly to mine—so quickly the others probably don't notice—before she answers. "Yes. My settlement exists where temperatures average negative fourty degrees Celsius during winter months. Survival is not taught as a separate skill—it is simply existence."

  "And what brought you to Toronto?" Dave asks, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

  "Circumstance," Grace replies. I recognize her retreat to monosyllabic responses—a defensive tactic when navigating potentially revealing questions. We practiced this one.

  "I lost my home," she elaborates after a brief pause, following our scripted response. "A conflict resulted in the destruction of my settlement. I traveled south seeking resources and shelter."

  It's not entirely false, though the interredimensional specifics remain conveniently omitted. Grace never volunteered exactly what happened to her clan, but from various comments, I've gathered that something catastrophic occurred—something involving a necromancer, a druid, and Grace killing said druid, who was a father figure to her. I haven't pushed further. It's Grace's story, not mine.

  Dave's expression softens with unexpected sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that. Must have been tough, especially in those conditions."

  "Adaptation is survival," Grace states simply.

  Mike interjects from where he's leaning against the wall, coffee mug in hand. "What specific survival skills did you specialize in up north?"

  Grace straightens slightly—if such a thing is even possible given her already perfect posture. "I trained primarily as a tracker and hunter. My specialties include navigation through extreme weather conditions, construction of emergency shelters using minimal materials, and efficient processing of game for maximum resource utilization."

  I notice she's carefully avoided mentioning her bow or bone knives—two elements that might raise questions we're not prepared to answer.

  "What about winter first aid?" Carter asks, curious dispite himself. "Any experience treating cold-related injuries in field conditions?"

  "Yes," Grace confirms. "I have successfully treated hypothermia, frostbite, and snow blindness with limited resources. Additionally, I can set broken bones and close wounds using natural materials when conventional medical supplies are unavailable."

  Carter nods, clearly impressed despite his usual stoicism. "That's a rare skill set. Most wilderness first aid courses teach protocol assuming evacuation within 24-48 hours. Your experience sounds more... comprehensive."

  "In some environments, evacuation is not an option," Grace responds. "Self-sufficiency becomes necessary for survival."

  The interview continues along these lines for nearly thirty minutes—technical questions about survival techniques, hypothetical scenarios about teaching methodology, practical queries about handling difficult students. Grace navigates each with remarkable precision, providing just enough detail to demonstrate expertise without revealing anything that might suggest her otherworldly origins.

  I watch with growing admoration and warm pride as she continues adapting to this environment. Two weeks ago, she didn't know what a smartphone was or how a shower worked. Now she's discussing Canadian wilderness regulations and appropriate learning progressions for survival skills with the same confidence she does everything else. I don't even know most of that stuff, other than what I need for my job and out of curiosity, now.

  It's during a question about handling disagreements with colleagues that I notice something surprising—Grace is actually enjoying this. The signs are subtle: the fractional relaxation of her shoulders, the slight increase in the detail of her responses, the way her eyes engage more directly with each person asking questions. She's in her element discussing survival techniques, even in this artificial interview setting.

  "Last question," Dave says, sharing another glance with Carter. "We sometimes get military guys with combat experience who think they know everything. How would you handle a student who challenges your authority or expertise?"

  I tense slightly, knowing this could be dangerous territory. After all, from what she's told me, Grace's default response to challenges in her world tends to involve lethal force at best, and various animal-related options otherwise, and we hadn't specifically practiced this scenario.

  Grace considers the question briefly. "I would invite practical demonstration," she says finally. "Theory without application is meaningless in survival situations. I would propose a controlled environment to test competing methodologies, allowing outcomes to establish credibility."

  She pauses, then adds with perfect seriousness, "Additionally, I would inform the student that excessive arrogance creates tactical vulnerabilities that potential predators could exploit." Before, after a second, "furthermore, dependent on the student, I would then demonstrate said vulnerabilities that best suits the student's requirements."

  Dave's booming laugh fills the cabin. "Perfect! Let them try to out-survive you, then remind them their ego could get them killed. I love it."

  He stands, extending his hand toward Grace. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, you're hired. We can start you next week, maybe have you observe a few classes before taking on your own students."

  Grace accepts his handshake—brief and precisely measured in both pressure and duration. "That is acceptable. I look forward to contributing my knowledge to your instructional team."

  "I believe this calls for a celebration," Dave announces, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the wooden floor. "And what better way to celebrate than showing off some skills?"

  Mike perks up immediately, setting his coffee mug down with a decisive thunk. "Hell yes. Time to see what our new colleague can really do."

  "Follow me, everyone," Dave says, gesturing toward the back door. "Training yard's all set up."

  We file out behind him into the crisp February air. The training yard behind Northern Edge isn't much to look at—a clearing surrounded by pines with several stations for different survival skills. There's the fire-starting area with stone circles, a knife skills section with targets and logs, and a small archery range near the back. The snow has been cleared from most of the yard, though it still forms pristine white banks around the perimeter.

  Grace walks beside me, her movements so fluid she barely leaves footprints in the patches of snow we cross. I'm still getting used to how she moves—like a predator padding silently through its territory, always alert despite the lack of obvious threats.

  "Have you told them about your... special skills?" I murmur just for her ears.

  "No," she responds quietly. "Though they will likely witness some aspect of my capabilities today. It appears tactical demonstration is a standard part of employment integration."

  Her ability to make "hanging out and showing off" sound like a military procedure never ceases to amaze me.

  "What are you going to demonstrate?" I ask, mildly concerned.

  "No throat-ripping or mercy-killing." Grace states before bumping my shoulder with her own, "I have not used my bow, and require practice. Nothing more."

  Dave positions himself in the center of the yard, all of us forming a loose semicircle around him. "Alright, folks. Traditional Northern Edge welcome for new instructors—we each demonstrate our specialty. Nothing like a little friendly showing off to break the ice."

  He grins, unzipping his heavy jacket despite the cold and tossing it aside. "I'll start."

  Dave moves toward a pile of wood that's been stacked nearby, selecting a particularly gnarly log with knots and twists that would make it nearly impossible to split with conventional methods. He pulls a hatchet from a sheath at his belt—not a survival or camp hatchet, but something older, heavier, its handle darkened from years of use, the blade showing signs of meticulous care despite its obvious age.

  "This was my grandfather's," Dave explains, running his thumb briefly along the hatchet's edge. "He taught me this technique when I was fourteen."

  Without further explanation, Dave positions himself beside the log, hatchet held loosely in his right hand. He takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders, and then—in a movement almost too fast to follow—brings the hatchet down. It's not the powerful overhead swing you'd expect for splitting wood. Instead, it's a precise, glancing blow that lands at what looks like a random point on the log's surface.

  The log doesn't split entirely. Instead, a crack appears, running along its length. Dave adjusts his position slightly, striking again at what seems to be another arbitrary point. The crack widens. A third strike, just as precise, and suddenly the log falls apart—not in jagged, splintered chunks, but in two nearly perfect halves, the wood separating cleanly along its natural grain.

  Dave straightens, a satisfied smile beneath his bushy beard. "Reading the wood," he says, resting the hatchet on his shoulder. "Every piece has its own story—knots, grain direction, hidden stresses. Listen to what it's telling you, and you'll never waste energy forcing what can be coaxed."

  He bends down, picks up one of the halves, and runs his finger along the surprisingly smooth surface where the split occurred. "See how I never cut through the wood? Just encouraged it to separate where it naturally wanted to. Takes practice to see those separation planes, but once you learn the language of wood, it's all there in plain sight."

  Dave gestures for us to come closer, pointing out subtle patterns in the grain. "Start by looking for these slightly darker lines—they follow the tree's growth rings. Then feel for areas that give slightly under pressure. Those are your sweet spots."

  He hands the hatchet to Raj, who attempts the technique with mixed results—his log splits, but with more jagged edges and visible force marks where the hatchet bit too deeply.

  "Too much power, not enough patience," Dave coaches. "You're still trying to dominate the wood instead of working with it."

  I notice Grace watching with keen interest, her head tilted slightly in that way that means she's analyzing and categorizing new information. The technique isn't entirely different from what she showed me in our backyard session, though Dave's approach seems more intuitive where hers was precise calculation.

  After everyone gets a chance to try Dave's method--Grace splitting the wood almost perfectly, I, with some assistance splitting the wood more or less--Mike steps forward with his usual cocky grin. "My turn."

  Where Dave's skill was subtle, Mike's is pure showmanship. He pulls a length of thin cord from his pocket, along with what looks like an ordinary stick about the size of my forearm.

  "Fire's great when you've got matches or a lighter," Mike says, crouching down. "But what happens when everything's wet, it's getting dark, and you've got nothing but what you can find?"

  He places the stick on the ground, then loops the cord around it once, holding each end of the cord in his hands. "Friction fire—but not the way most people try it."

  Instead of the familiar bow drill method I've seen him teach beginners, Mike begins pulling the cord back and forth rapidly, causing the stick to spin in alternating directions. He's positioned one end of the stick against a small indentation in a piece of bark filled with what looks like shredded plant fiber.

  "This is a variation on the fire roll," Mike explains, his hands never stopping their rhythmic movement. "Most people try the bow drill and get frustrated when it doesn't work right away. This method uses less energy and creates heat faster if you know the right materials."

  Within thirty seconds, smoke begins rising from the bark. Mike leans down, his breath carefully controlled as he blows gently on the smoking tinder. Then, with a showman's timing, he lifts the bark to reveal a glowing ember. He carefully transfers this to a waiting nest of finely shredded cedar bark, cradling it in his hands, breathing life into it until flames spring forth.

  "The trick isn't the method," Mike says, standing with the small flame dancing in his palm. "It's knowing exactly what materials work together. This stick is cedar—contains natural oils that help the process. The tinder is cattail fluff mixed with birch bark shavings. And the fiber board underneath is from the inner bark of a cottonwood tree."

  He passes around the remaining materials, letting each of us examine them. "The best survivalists aren't the strongest or fastest—they're the ones who know their environment intimately. That's what I try to teach."

  I remember struggling with fire-starting methods during my limited outdoor experiences at Northern Edge—being blind makeing stuff like actualy starting fires kind of dificult and all that. Now, with my restored vision, I look at Mike's demonstration with new appreciation, seeing subtle differences in the materials that I would have missed before.

  Carter steps forward next, his movements crisp and efficient as always. Unlike Dave and Mike, he doesn't immediately reach for equipment or materials. Instead, he kneels beside one of the training logs, placing his hand flat against the snow-dampened earth.

  "Survival isn't just about skills," he says, his voice carrying that military precision that never quite leaves him. "It's about awareness. Reading the landscape like you'd read a book."

  He motions for us all to kneel beside him. "Put your hand on the ground. Tell me what you feel."

  "Cold," Raj offers with a laugh.

  "Damp soil," Mike adds.

  "Something disturbed this area recently," Grace says, her fingers playing lightly across the surface. "Approximately four hours ago. Small animal—rabbit, based on the compression pattern."

  I. I just stay quiet, since. What am I going to say to that? I feel. Damp soil, mostly. Kind of just feels like shoveing my foot down my throat if I say that now, though.

  Carter's eyebrows raise slightly, the closest he ever comes to looking surprised. "Exactly. Now look there." He points to a patch of ground about ten feet away with no visible markings I can discern.

  "What are we looking for?" I ask, focusing.

  In response, Carter picks up a handful of dry pine needles and tosses them into the air above the spot he indicated. As they fall, several needles seem to hover briefly before settling, creating a barely perceptible pattern on the ground.

  "Air movement," he explains. "There's a burrow entrance there—breathing creates subtle air currents that disturb lightweight materials differently than the surrounding area."

  He stands, moving to another part of the yard. "Survival tracking isn't just following obvious footprints. It's reading the story written in bent grass, displaced pebbles, transfer marks on vegetation."

  For the next ten minutes, Carter leads us on what can only be described as a forensic nature walk around the perimeter of the training yard. He points out signs I would never have noticed—a small tuft of fur caught on a low branch, a subtle pattern of water droplets on leaves that indicates an animal passed through after morning dew, even the direction of local bird movements that suggest a predator's presence in the western woods.

  "Twenty-five years of military observation taught me to see what's there," Carter says, "but it was the wilderness that taught me to see what isn't there but should be. That's often more telling."

  Grace nods at this, a flash of what might be respect crossing her features. Of all the instructors, Carter seems most aligned with her own approach—methodical, detailed, precise in observation and execution.

  Raj, never one to be outdone, steps forward next. "My turn to blow your minds," he announces with characteristic enthusiasm.

  He reaches into his pack and pulls out what looks like ordinary rope, along with several small metal objects I don't immediately recognize.

  "Everyone focuses on the basics—fire, shelter, water," Raj says, deftly manipulating the rope. "But what happens when you need to cross a ravine? Scale a cliff face? Lower someone who's injured down a steep slope?"

  His fingers move with practiced precision, creating a complex series of knots and hitches in the rope. "Survival rope systems can mean the difference between life and death in the backcountry."

  I watch, fascinated, as Raj demonstrates a variety of techniques—from simple pulley systems that multiply force to elaborate friction hitches that allow controlled descent. He shows how to create a harness from a single length of rope, how to rig emergency haul systems, and how to test anchor points for weight-bearing capacity.

  "The physics are simple once you understand the principles," Raj explains, creating what he calls a "Z-drag" system that theoretically allows a single person to move several times their body weight with minimal effort. "These techniques have saved countless lives in wilderness rescue situations." Before, sobering, "I would know."

  He gestures for volunteers, setting up a mock rescue scenario where Carter plays an injured hiker and the rest of us must work together to raise him up a simulated slope using just the rope systems Raj has demonstrated.

  Throughout the exercise, I notice Grace watching with intense concentration, her eyes tracking each knot, each application of mechanical advantage with the sharp focus of someone committing everything to memory. I wonder how many of these techniques exist in her world, or if they've developed entirely different approaches to similar problems.

  When Raj concludes his demonstration, all eyes turn to Grace.

  "Your turn," Dave says with an encouraging nod. "Show us what you've got, surviver squirl girl."

  Grace stands perfectly still for a moment, clearly calculating her options. Then, with fluid precision, she reaches behind her back—into seemingly empty air—and produces the bow and quiver that definitely weren't there a second ago.

  My breath catches. I've never seen Grace use her weapon storage ability before. She mentioned it once, explaining how she carries equipment in what she called a "personal dimension pocket," but seeing it in action is something else entirely. One moment there's nothing, the next she's holding an intricately carved bow made from some dark material that doesn't look quite like wood.

  The others react with varying degrees of surprise—from Raj's audible gasp to Carter's narrowed eyes and subtle shift in posture. Dave simply whistles low, clearly impressed but not entirely shocked, which makes me wonder what else he's seen in his years of wilderness work.

  Grace steps toward the archery range, nocking an arrow with practiced ease. "In my homelan—" she catches herself. "In the north, accuracy with ranged weapons can mean the difference between survival and starvation."

  Without further explanation, she draws and releases in one smooth motion. The arrow flies true, striking the center of the target with such force that the entire stand shudders. Before anyone can comment, she draws and fires again—her second arrow splitting the first down the middle. A third arrow follows with impossible speed, splitting the second.

  The training yard falls silent. The demonstration isn't just impressive—it's beyond human capability as we understand it. No one could fire that accurately, that quickly, with enough force to split arrow shafts. The others aren't stupid.

  Grace lowers the bow, her expression unchanged. "Ranged combat provides tactical advantages in multiple survival scenarios," she states, as if she hasn't just done something physically impossible. "It allows for hunting from safe distances, deters predators without direct engagement, and conserves energy otherwise spent on pursuit."

  She returns the bow to its invisible storage with the same seamless motion, then faces us directly. "I can instruct each of you in basic archery techniques, though your individual aptitudes may vary. Based on physical assessment, each would be better suited to different ranged weapons."

  Grace turns to Dave. "You have shoulder structures that would adapt well to proper bow techniques. Your experience in perceiving natural patterns would transfer effectively to trajectory calculation."

  Looking at Mike, she continues: "Your wrist flexibility suggests sling proficiency. Simple to construct from found materials, effective for small game acquisition."

  To Raj: "Your precision with rope systems indicates potential for thrown weapons—bolas or nets. Valuable for non-lethal immobilization of food sources."

  To Carter: "Your military background has likely provided firearms training. However, for silent operation, blowguns would complement your respiratory control and observation skills."

  Finally, she turns to me, her expression softening fractionally in a way probably only I would notice. "You would excel with a slingshot. Eye-hand coordination is excellent, especially since you're vision has been returned. Lightweight, easily concealed, ammunition readily available in natural environments."

  The casual mention of my "vision restoration" causes a ripple of reaction among the others, though no one interrupts. I feel myself flushing slightly, aware that Grace has just casually confirmed what everyone has at least suspected.

  "I should note," Grace adds, looking directly at me, "that I have informed Bearee of my status window and various capabilities, though not of your process of regaining vision. That remains your story to tell, not mine."

  I nod, grateful for her understanding of boundaries despite her usual bluntness.

  Dave clears his throat. "Well, that was... impressive. Care to give us a quick lesson in basic archery? I actually did some bow hunting in my twenties, but nothing like what you just demonstrated." Before, with a grin, "kind of liked just throwing axes at things, though."

  Grace nods once. "Certainly. However, I should clarify that my archery skills are enhanced by vigger—an energy system from my homeland. Without similar training, your results will necessarily differ."

  "Vigger?" Carter repeats, the unfamiliar word clearly catching his attention. "What kind of energy system are we talking about?"

  Grace pauses, and I can practically see her calculating how much to reveal. She glances at me briefly—not for permission exactly, but perhaps for guidance.

  "It's your call," I tell her quietly. "You're power, you're choice what you do with it."

  She considers for another moment, then nods. "I will demonstrate, with your permission."

  Without waiting for a response, Grace moves to one of the larger logs in the yard—easily a hundred kilos of solid wood. With perfect form, she braces herself, then lifts the entire log overhead with one hand, holding it there with no visible strain before setting it gently back down.

  "Vigger is life energy," she explains as casually as if she'd just picked up a stick rather than performed a feat of impossible strength for, you know, a woman who can't way more than a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet. "Properly channeled, it enhances physical capabilities, extends sensory perception, and accelerates healing processes."

  "Holy shit," Mike breathes, staring at the log, then at Grace's slender frame.

  "Can it be taught?" Carter asks, his expression intensely focused.

  "Yes," Grace confirms. "Though results vary based on individual aptitude and dedication to practice."

  "Like, actual super powers?" Raj asks, his voice pitched higher with excitement. "Are we talking about actual super powers here?"

  "No," Grace responds with characteristic precision. "The capabilities appear supernatural only because they exceed standard human parameters. However, they operate within natural laws, merely at optimized levels."

  Dave rubs his beard thoughtfully. "I've met people in my travels who could do things most would consider impossible—monastery-trained monks who could regulate their body temperature in sub-zero conditions, trackers who could follow trails days old through rainstorms, fucking Etienne, but he's, well. Fucking Etienne. Still, always figured there was more to human potential than we typically access."

  "There is," Grace confirms. "Vigger simply provides a methodical framework for that access."

  Carter steps forward, his streight bearing somehow more pronounced. "Grace, with your permission, I'd like to learn more about this. Not just out of curiosity—if these techniques could help in wilderness survival situations, they could literally save lives."

  Grace studies him with that penetrating gaze that seems to look straight through surface appearances. "Your assessment is correct. However, proper training requires significant time investment. We can discuss parameters for instruction after my employment orientation is complete."

  "Speaking of orientation," Dave interjects, clapping his hands together, "let's take a look at the equipment for your forest expedition. I've pulled some of our best gear for you two."

  He leads us around to a storage shed, unlocking it to reveal several packs and assorted equipment laid out on a workbench.

  "Three days in the deep woods in February requires proper gear," Dave explains, pulling out a topographical map. "I've marked a route through here—good mix of terrain, some challenging sections but nothing too extreme for a first outing."

  Grace immediately begins examining each piece of equipment with meticulous precision. She picks up a sleeping bag, tests its fabric between her fingers, checks the stitching, then shakes her head.

  "Inadequate for temperatures below minus fifteen Celsius," she states. "Seams will allow heat leakage at critical junctures. Synthetic fill compresses excessively when wet."

  Dave blinks, then nods slowly. "Good catch. That's our three-season model—must have been mixed in by mistake."

  Grace moves systematically through the gear, providing detailed assessments of each item. A knife is "suboptimal edge geometry, though acceptable for secondary use." A water filter is "efficiently designed but vulnerable to freezing damage." A compass is "well-balanced, accurate enough for non-precision navigation."

  As she works, I notice the others watching with growing respect. Even Carter seems impressed by the depth of her technical knowledge and the precision of her evaluations, and Carter's been actually shot at.

  "These fire starters are excellent," Grace comments, testing one with her thumb. "Reliable ignition, functions in wet conditions, minimal fuel consumption."

  "I would reject this tent," she continues, examining the poles. "Carbon fiber susceptible to stress fractures in extreme cold. Aluminum would provide superior reliability despite weight increase."

  She completes her inspection, having sorted the equipment into two distinct piles. "These items meet wilderness survival requirements," she says, gesturing to the larger pile. "These do not," she adds, indicating the rejected equipment.

  "For future acquisitions," she tells Dave, "prioritize durability over weight reduction, redundant systems for critical functions, and multi-purpose design where possible."

  She pauses, then adds with what might almost be hesitation, "However, I have limited experience with monetary value assessment. I defer to your expertise regarding budget allocation."

  Dave laughs, genuinely delighted. "You're going to revolutionize our equipment standards, Grace. Most instructors talk about gear in terms of brands and features—you go straight to functional assessment based on material properties."

  "Function determines survival probability," Grace states simply. "Brand designations are irrelevant compared to performance metrics."

  After finalizing our equipment selection, we head back inside the main cabin for coffee. The atmosphere has shifted—where earlier there was professional curiosity about a new colleague, now there's a palpable sense of excitement, even fascination, though that last one might just be projecting, since. Well. Magical woman who can fix my eyes and shoot arrows into other arrows.

  "Dave," Raj says as he doctors his coffee with an alarming amount of sugar, "when's the next game night? I've got some ideas for our campaign that would work perfectly with Grace's character."

  "Friday," Dave responds, checking his calendar. "Though we'll need to adjust the difficulty based on what we saw today. Grace's ranger just became a lot more formidable in my mind, and there's the hole, 'war of grate houses' alterations to consider."

  "I look forward to it," Grace says, surprising me with what sounds like genuine enthusiasm, at least by her standards. "The collaborative problem-solving exercise was intellectually stimulating."

  "I'm in too," I add, "though I might be a bit off my game. I've got a dentist appointment later this afternoon."

  Grace's head tilts in that now-familiar questioning angle. "What is a dentist?"

  The question catches me off guard—another reminder of how different her world is then, well, this one, and another reminder of how fast she's adapted to mine. "A doctor who specializes in teeth," I explain. "They clean them, fix cavities—damaged areas—and make sure everything's healthy."

  "Why would this affect game performance?" Grace asks, clearly confused now.

  "Because they numb your mouth," Mike jumps in. "And sometimes they drill into your teeth, which sounds way worse than it is, but still leaves you feeling weird for hours."

  "They use a needle to inject freezing around the area they're working on," Carter elaborates more precisely. "So you don't feel pain, but it leaves part of your face temporarily numb and makes speaking difficult."

  Grace processes this information with visible effort. "You allow someone to deliberately immobilize part of your nervous system and then insert high-speed rotary tools into your mouth? Voluntarily?" Grace sounds as concerned as I've ever heard her, which. I mean I can understand, kind of?

  Put that way, it does sound pretty absurd. "Yeah, because the alternative is worse. Tooth infections can be incredibly painful and dangerous if left untreated." Carter notes.

  "In my homeland," Grace says after a moment's consideration, "damaged teeth were typically extracted. Preservation techniques as you describe would be considered unnecessary resource expenditure."

  That tracks with everything else I've learned about her world—pragmatic to the point of brutality, focused entirely on survival with little room for comfort or long-term health considerations beyond immediate function.

  "Well, modern dentistry is one of the perks of our world," Dave says with a chuckle. "Though I can't say I look forward to my appointments either."

  As the conversation moves to other topics, I check my watch and realize we need to head out if I'm going to make my dentist apointment today.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "We must depart," she announces. "Jason has," Grace seems to struggle before continueing with. "dentist obligations."

  We say our goodbyes, with Dave confirming Grace's official start date for the following Monday and everyone expressing enthusiasm for the game night later.

  As we walk back to Dad's truck, Grace automatically moves to the driver's side. She's been handling most of the driving since we discovered that my new vision, while incredible in most respects, still struggles with certain aspects, like the painted lines on the rode for example.

  "Well, that went even better than I expected," I say as she starts the engine. "I think they're half terrified and half in love with you already."

  "Their response was tactically optimal," Grace agrees while backing out of the gravel lot. "Professional respect facilitates effective knowledge transfer."

  I laugh, settling back in my seat. "Is that Grace-speak for 'I think I'm going to like working here'?"

  She considers this as she navigates onto the main road, her hands precisely positioned at ten and two on the wheel. "Perhaps," she admits after a moment. "Their approach to survival education aligns with my methodologies in several key aspects."

  That's probably the closest thing to excitement I'll get from her, and somehow it's enough. As we drive toward the dental clinic, I find myself thinking about how much has changed in just two weeks. From hopelessness to enhanced vision and something that might be hope now, from solitary existence to... whatever this is with Grace were building. From a mundane life to one where interdimensional travelers pull bows from pocket dimensions and demonstrate impossible feats of strength at my place of employment and refuge, where said heal my eyes because the alternative was to kill me and she didn't want to do that.

  And soon we'll be spending three days alone in the wilderness together, where Grace will continue teaching me skills I never thought I'd be able to do at all, and I hope I can teach her. Well. I have no idea but still.

  "Thank you," I say after a while, the words escaping before I can overthink them.

  "For what specific action do you express gratitude?" Grace asks, eyes never leaving the road.

  "For all of it," I reply honestly. "For showing me a world I never knew existed. For treating me like I'm capable of, well, just capeable even when sometimes I don't believe that myself. For..." I hesitate, then decide to go for broke. "For seeing me. Really seeing me, even when I couldn't see anything at all."

  Grace is silent for long enough that I think she might not respond. Then, so quietly I almost miss it over the truck's engine, she speaks once more.

  "I see you, Jason Stone. I have from the beginning. That is perhaps the most unexpected development I have encountered in this world."

  I don't ask her to explain. Some things, I'm learning, don't need further elaboration, even from someone as precise as Grace. Instead, I just look out the window at the winter landscape rushing by, feeling something unfamiliar and warm unfurling in my chest, pushing back the cold hollowness, emptyness, that's been there as long as I can remember.

  ---Grace---

  I stand rigidly beside Jason in the small waiting area, cataloging my surroundings with practiced efficiency. The space contains twelve chairs arranged in a horseshoe pattern, all occupied except for two. A reception desk stands opposite the entrance, staffed by a woman whose smile appears to be a practiced social mechanism rather than an expression of genuine pleasure. The air carries unfamiliar chemical scents—antiseptic compounds mixed with artificial mint and something sharper that tickles my nostrils.

  My thoughts drift to the interview at Northern Edge from earlier today. Objectively, it went well—Dave's immediate offer of employment confirms this. But more significant was the unexpected warmth with which Jason's friends received me. Not just Dave, but Carter, Mike, and Raj as well. Their acceptance was... not tactically necessary, yet satisfying in a way I find difficult to categorize.

  They are good for Jason—this much is obvious from observation. At Northern Edge, his posture changes, his voice carries more confidence, his movements become more certain. Their scents indicate genuine affection and respect—especially Carter, whose military precision reminds me somewhat of ranger protocols from my homeland.

  The walls display images of human teeth in various configurations. Some show cross-sections revealing internal structures I recognize as anatomically accurate based on my field dressing experience. Others depict before-and-after scenarios of dental correction that appear to serve as advertisements for services offered in this facility.

  From the discussions at Northern Edge, I understand "dentistry" involves maintenance and repair of human teeth. Dave referred to it as "one of the perks of our world," suggesting such specialized care is unusual or unavailable elsewhere. In my homeland, damaged teeth were typically extracted—preservation would be considered unnecessary resource expenditure, especially when teeth could, with effort and time, be re-grown via internal vigger application.

  "Grace," Jason says, his voice pitched lower than normal, "I need to go in for my appointment. Could you wait here? It shouldn't take more than an hour."

  I detect subtle markers of distress in his breathing pattern—slightly elevated at 16 respirations per minute, shallower than his baseline. His scent carries notes of anxiety mixed with something I categorize as resignation. He doesn't want to do this procedure, that much is clear, but appears to have accepted its necessity. Jason rarely complains about discomfort—another trait that would have served him well in my homeland.

  "If you require my presence during this procedure, I can accompany you," I offer, noting the increased tension in his trapezius muscles.

  "No, it's fine," he responds, eyes darting briefly toward the hallway where a woman in a blue uniform has appeared. "It's just a cavity. Annoying, but safe."

  He shifts his weight, a behavior I've observed occurs when he's withholding information or experiencing discomfort. "Just... I might not be quite normal when I come out. The medication they use can make people a bit loopy. So if I do or say anything stupid, please disregard it."

  His emphasis on this last point draws my attention. Jason is deliberately creating conditions under which his words cannot be construed as commands. The death oath requires specific intent behind commands to activate its binding power, but Jason consistently reinforces these boundaries despite my previous explanations.

  "I understand," I state simply. "Non-normative behavior resulting from chemical intervention will not be interpreted as commands."

  Jason's posture relaxes fractionally. "Thanks, Grace. I'll see you soon."

  I watch him follow the blue-uniformed woman down the hallway, noting the subtle tension in his gait. His anxiety appears disproportionate to his own assessment of the procedure as 'annoying but safe.' This inconsistency warrants further investigation.

  As I settle into an unoccupied chair, positioning myself with optimal sightlines to all exits, I reflect on Jason's persistent caution regarding the death oath. In my homeland, such oaths are tools of survival—practical bonds that ensure loyalty and service. Those who command oath-bound individuals typically use this resource efficiently, directing basic tasks like water collection, food preparation, and shelter maintenance.

  Jason has never issued a single command. Not one.

  Even more curious is his physiological response whenever the oath is discussed. His scent profile shifts dramatically—sharp notes of anger, worry, self-loathing, and stress intermingling in a distinctive pattern I've come to recognize. The phenomenon first appeared when I initially explained the oath to him, triggering an uncharacteristic display of aggression as he stocked around the living room while calmly demanding to know if others had used such oaths to force sexual compliance.

  His reaction suggested personal significance beyond theoretical ethical concerns. Something in his history, perhaps, though I have insufficient data to form concrete conclusions. I will not ask. Not unless he voluntarily speaks of it. It is, after all, his story, and not mine.

  The realization strikes me with unexpected force: I am angry. Not the cold, calculated anger that serves tactical advantage, but something hotter, sharper. The thought that someone in Jason's past may have forced him, coerced him in some way—it creates a sensation of pressure in my chest that defies tactical categorization.

  Jason has been kind without reason or expectation. He brought me inside when I was freezing. He offered his shower without restriction, even when I depleted all the hot water that first time. He provided clothing, food, shelter—and asked nothing in return except basic consideration for his family's comfort. Even Bearee, initially wary as any rational person would be, accepted my presence despite clear concern for her son. Jason, despite his own desires, has without acception honoured my initial request in regards to physicle contact.

  The pressure in my chest intensifies. Jason is mine to teach, to protect from threats his world cannot prepare him for. The thought that someone may have harmed him in the past when he could not protect himself—before I was here to do so—is surprisingly difficult to process without emotional interference.

  Equally puzzling is Jason's selective approach to my olfactory capabilities. When he learned I could detect emotional states through scent, he requested—not commanded—that I filter out his parents' emotional markers, but made no such request regarding his own. Most in my homeland who discover this ability immediately demand complete olfactory privacy. Jason's selective approach suggests either strategic calculation or, more likely given his behavioral patterns, peculiar priorities regarding privacy and trust. Yes, he has remarked several times that he finds my ability to smell his emotions useful when explaining consepts. However, I still find this, strange.

  I make a mental note to ask him about this discrepancy when he returns, although only for tacticle reasoning. The question should be straightforward enough, even if his answer proves complex, as most things tend to be with Jason, even if said answer normally ends with me haveing gained more information about this world than I believed I required.

  After approximately twenty-three minutes of observation, my concern regarding Jason's procedure intensifies. His anxiety level suggested greater risk than his verbal assessment indicated—a discrepancy worth investigating. Additionally, understanding standard medical procedures in this world represents valuable tactical information for future reference.

  I rise smoothly from my chair, moving toward the hallway with silent precision. None of the reception staff appear to notice my departure from the waiting area—an oversight that would have fatal consequences in my homeland.

  The corridor contains seven doors, five of which are closed. Through the nearest open doorway, I observe a young female receiving some form of cleaning procedure. The second open door reveals an empty treatment room containing an elaborate chair with attached equipment—metal instruments, a water dispensing mechanism, and what appears to be a small drill.

  I continue silently down the hallway, listening for Jason's distinctive vocal patterns. At the fifth door, I pause, detecting his breathing cadence—now elevated to approximately 20 respirations per minute. Peering through the narrow vertical window in the door, I observe a scene that immediately triggers combat readiness.

  Jason lies reclined in a chair similar to the one I observed previously. A mask covers his nose, delivering some form of gas. A woman in a white coat leans over him, a mechanized drill positioned within his mouth. Most alarmingly, tears leak from the corners of Jason's eyes, running down his temples into his hair.

  Though the dentistry procedure was explained to me earlier, seeing it performed on Jason creates an unexpected response. My hand moves instinctively to where my bone knife is sheathed, hand gripping the familiar hilt though not drawing it. The use of the drill on living tissue, while apparently standard practice in this world, seems unnecessarily invasive compared to vigger healing techniques.

  "Excuse me, can I help you find something?"

  I turn with controlled precision to face a woman in blue scrubs similar to those worn by the staff attending to Jason. Early-thirties, compact, empty smile, grey eyes, casual stance though combat training is obvious. Her expression indicates polite inquiry rather than suspicion, though her posture suggests she recognizes my presence as unauthorized.

  "What is being done to my Jason?" I demand, the possessive modifier emerging without tactical calculation. I clarify immediately: "There were multiple Jasons who entered treatment rooms after my Jason's arrival. As such," I nod towards the closed door. 'He is mine."

  The possessive feels surprisingly right on my tongue. *My Jason*. The phrase creates another instance of the chest-warmth I've been experiencing with increasing frequency. I find I enjoy the claim, though I experience momentary concern about how Jason might respond to such designation. Would he object? Would he perhaps... reciprocate such a claim? The thought of being "his Grace" creates not tactical vulnerability as expected, but another surge of the warmth. Puzzling and worthy of further analysis, but not here. Not now.

  The woman's expression shifts to what I recognize as confusion mixed with professional concern. "Are you a family member? Patients generally don't have visitors during procedures."

  "I am his protection," I state, as this is correct. "He is experiencing distress. Explain the purpose of the drill and the gas being administered."

  Her confusion increases, but her professional demeanor remains. "That's Dr. Chen performing a routine filling for a cavity. The nitrous oxide—the gas—helps patients relax. It's completely standard procedure."

  "Could you explain exactly what a cavity is?" I ask, maintaining my position. "In your professional capacity."

  The woman—Melissa, according to her nametag—seems surprised by the question but shifts smoothly into explanation mode.

  "A cavity is decay in the tooth. Bacteria in the mouth produce acid that eats away at the enamel—the hard outer layer of the tooth. Once it breaks through, the decay spreads to the softer inner layers. The drill removes the decayed portion, and the filling seals the cleaned-out space to prevent further infection."

  I process this information rapidly. Vigger could easily repair such damage—regenerating the enamel and eliminating the bacterial infection without requiring mechanical intervention. Jason could avoid this entire uncomfortable procedure if I simply taught him the appropriate vigger application techniques. I make a mental note to research this possibility once our wilderness training begins.

  "The tears indicate pain," I counter, maintaining my position between her and Jason's door.

  "Some patients experience discomfort despite local anesthesia," she explains, her tone shifting to what I recognize as intentionally calming. "But I assure you, everything happening in there is normal and safe. If you could return to the waiting room—"

  "Who are you?" she asks suddenly, her eyes narrowing with more focused assessment. "And don't say Jason's guard psychopath," she adds with unexpected directness. "I've been trained by one, seen several more. You're not a psychopath. I would know."

  This statement creates immediate tactical reassessment. This "dental hygienist" is more than she appears.

  "How so?" I ask, shifting my weight slightly to optimize defensive positioning.

  "Psychopaths don't care," she states simply. "Not really. They can fake it sometimes, but it never reaches their eyes." She gestures toward Jason's door. "You care about him. It's all over your face when you look at him. Psychopaths can't do that. I couldn't, before. Even when I really, really wished I could."

  Her assessment aligns uncomfortably with what Carter told me after the game night. The contradiction between my status window and these observations creates cognitive dissonance I've been unable to resolve.

  "You appear to have specialized knowledge beyond dental hygiene," I observe instead.

  Melissa smiles—a genuine expression that transforms her face. "Etienne calls me his 'kind-of apprentice.' I'm an apprentice Deathblade, though obviously not in his league. This is just my cover job. I'm not here because of Jason, actually." She nods toward the treatment room with the girl. "I'm here watching her."

  I process this new information rapidly. A Deathblade's apprentice in this small dental facility suggests surveillance operations far beyond standard medical care, regardless of the fact I have no tacticle knowledge of what that is. Or, this Etienne individual.

  "I see," I respond, reassessing the tactical situation. "Your presence is unrelated to ours."

  "Complete coincidence," she confirms before: "I understand you're concerned," she continues after a brief pause. "How about this—the procedure should be finishing in about five minutes. You can wait right here, and I'll let Dr. Chen know you're waiting to speak with her once they're done."

  This compromise serves immediate tactical objectives. "Acceptable," I agree. "Five minutes."

  Melissa nods, maintains eye contact for 2.3 seconds longer than normal social interaction parameters would suggest, then moves down the hallway, glancing back once before entering another treatment room.

  I position myself beside Jason's door, back against the wall, maintaining optimal sightlines down both directions of the corridor. The placement allows immediate intervention if necessary while minimizing the likelihood of being approached from behind.

  Precisely four minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, the door opens. The woman in the white coat—presumably Dr. Chen—emerges, blinking in surprise at my presence.

  "Oh! Hello there. Are you with Mr. Stone?"

  "Yes," I confirm. "Is he unharmed?"

  Her expression shifts to what I recognize as practiced reassurance. "He's absolutely fine. The procedure went smoothly—just a standard filling for a small cavity. He'll feel a little numb for a few hours on his left side, and he might be a bit... disoriented from the nitrous oxide for about thirty minutes."

  "I will escort him home," I state, moving past her into the treatment room.

  Jason remains reclined in the chair, though the mask has been removed. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring at the ceiling with unusual intensity. His pupils are dilated beyond normal parameters for the room's lighting conditions.

  "Hey, Grace," he says as I approach, his speech pattern slower and slightly slurred compared to his baseline. "Did you know that ceilings are just indoor skies? I never really saw them before. They're amazing."

  He turns his head slowly, his smile wider and more unguarded than I've ever witnessed. "You're here! That's so nice. You're nice. And amazing. Way more amazing than ceilings." His uninhibited gaze traces my face with obvious appreciation. "You're like... everything amazing. Like, you killed a squirrel and cooked it perfectly the first day. And you're teaching me knife skills. And you gave me my eyes. And you sleep with the kitten on your face like it's normal. And your little smile when you think no one's looking..."

  His unfiltered observations create an unexpected intensity in the chest-warmth I've been experiencing—a response I file away for later analysis as it serves no immediate tactical purpose at this time.

  "I am here to take you home," I respond, focusing on the practical task at hand. "Can you stand and walk?"

  "Probably?" He pushes himself to a seated position with exaggerated care, then pauses, staring at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. "Whoa. Hands are weird, right? Like... they're just meat starfish at the ends of our arm branches. Not sure how I just realized that."

  He continues staring at his hands, then looks up at me with sudden intensity. "You know what's amazing? I never could have seen my hands before. Before you helped me. You fixed my eyes, Grace. Thank you for that. Thank you so much for that."

  The sincerity in his voice creates another surge of the chest-warmth, I pushing it asside as currently, my immediate assistance is required. Moving forward, I position myself at his side, one arm sliding behind his back to provide stability.

  "I will help you stand now," I inform him, carefully applying upward pressure.

  Jason rises unsteadily, leaning more heavily against me than necessary. His body temperature feels elevated compared to his normal baseline, and his breathing patterns have shifted to deeper, slower inhalations.

  "You're so strong," he marvels as I guide him toward the door. "Like, impossibly strong. Are you sure you're not actually some kind of superhero? Or maybe an angel? A really scary, knife-wielding angel?"

  I navigate him through the doorway, maintaining optimal support while ensuring his head doesn't impact the frame. "I am neither superhuman nor supernatural by my world's standards," I answer truthfully, though recognizing his altered state likely prevents him from processing complex information.

  "Your world," Jason repeats, his voice dropping to what he likely intends as a whisper but emerges at normal conversational volume. "Right! The other place. With the meat-eating squirrels and the death oath and the horrible freezing cold. That's why you liked the shower so much! And the hot tub! And hugs. You liked when I hugged you before."

  I adjust our path to avoid a passing staff member, who gives Jason's condition a knowing look before continuing down the hallway.

  "Yes," I respond simply, calculating that engaging troothfully with his tangential thought patterns will be more efficient than attempting to redirect them at this time.

  However, now also seems like an appropriate time to gather information he might normally withhold. "Jason, why did you ask me to filter out your parents' emotional scents, but not your own?"

  His unfocused eyes somehow manage to find mine, his expression suddenly serious despite his chemical alteration. "Because I don't mind if you can smell my emotions. Everyone else can see them on my face anyway." He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Plus, it's nice that someone sees me—really sees me—for more than just 'blind Jason.' Or 'formerly blind Jason' now, I guess." Before. "Also, like I said, shit at explaining things, and it helps when you can smell the parts I can't articulate, you know?"

  He pulls back slightly, his dilated pupils somehow conveying intensity despite their chemical cause. "You just see me as Jason. And I kinda like that. A lot."

  This unexpected honesty creates another surge of the chest-warmth. His words contain no tactical value yet feel significant in ways I cannot properly categorize. Should not want to categorize. Will not categorize at this time.

  We progress through the reception area, where I pause only long enough to allow Jason to complete whatever administrative requirements remain for his procedure. The receptionist hands him a small paper bag, which I take immediately, as his current lack of fine motor coordination would likely result in dropping it.

  "Pain management instructions are inside," she informs me. "And he should avoid eating until the numbness wears off—about two to three hours."

  I nod once in acknowledgment before guiding Jason through the exit doors into the parking lot. The February air hits us immediately, cold and crisp against exposed skin. Jason inhales deeply, his eyes widening.

  "Oh my god, Grace," he exclaims with disproportionate enthusiasm. "The air is so... airy! It's like breathing cold water but it's not wet. How does that even work? Do you know?"

  "Air is a gaseous mixture of nitrogen, oxygen, and trace elements," I explain patiently, guiding him toward his vehicle. "It can be manipulated via pressure and temperature, similar to water but with different phase transition points."

  Jason stares at me with exaggerated awe. "You're so smart. Like, terrifyingly smart. Smart enough to kill someone with just your brain probably."

  "Intelligence is not the primary factor in effective combat," I correct automatically. "Physical capability, tactical assessment, and proper weapon utilization represent greater determinants of success."

  We reach the car, and I position Jason against its side while retrieving the keys from his pocket—a necessary invasion of personal space justified by his compromised state. He makes no objection, instead becoming fascinated by a bird perched on a nearby light post.

  "That bird is judging us," he stage-whispers. "Look at its little bird eyes. So judgmental. What do birds even have to be judgmental about? They poop wherever they want!"

  Melissa approaches as I'm preparing to help Jason into the car. "Be straight with him when he's sober," she advises quietly. "Tell him exactly what happened here. Otherwise, he'll obsess over every interaction, picking apart what he might have done wrong." She smiles wryly. "Cookies and ice cream help too, especially if you eat them with him. You do like cookies, right?"

  "I am unfamiliar with cookies," I admit. "Are they tactically significant?"

  Melissa laughs. "Ask Jason to explain when he's coherent. Trust me, they're worth knowing about."

  She tucks something into my shirt pocket before turning to leave. "Don't mind the crows—they're on our side, unlike the Gease," before she walks away.

  "What are cookies?" I ask Jason as I help him into the passenger seat.

  His face lights up with childlike delight. "Oh my god, Grace, you don't know about cookies? They're like... little discs of happiness. Made of flour and butter and sugar and sometimes chocolate chips which are the best ones obviously and they're warm and soft in the middle but kinda crispy on the edges and—" He nearly loses his balance attempting to gesture the shape of a cookie, and I catch him as I do not wish him harming himself on the concreeet.

  His arms wrap around me in a hug, which i do not attempt to extract myself from. Jason, after all, requires support currently, and he will flagilate himself enough with the current developments as it is. Also. I do not... I do not dislike, this gesture.

  "I've wanted to do this since you woke up at my house," he murmurs against my shoulder. "Just hug you. Say thank you properly. Is this okay? I should have asked first. Did I ask last time? I hope I asked last time."

  The contact creates. Safety? Warmth, certainly, though once more, not the same warmth as the shower and or hot tub.

  "It is acceptable," I reply, allowing the contact to continue for 3.2 seconds longer than tactically necessary.

  As I carefully disentangle myself to complete getting Jason into the car, a loud honk from above draws my attention. A Canada goose swoops low, its trajectory aimed directly at Jason's head. I react instinctively, pulling him aside as the bird releases a white projectile that splats against the pavement where he stood a moment before.

  "Holy shit!" Jason exclaims, staring at the near miss. "That goose tried to poop on me!"

  More geese appear, circling overhead in what appears to be a coordinated attack pattern. They release a barrage of excrement, most landing on Magnen's truck despite my efforts to position us away from the vehicle.

  "They're pooping on Dad's truck!" Jason cries in outrage. "I wish I had a slingshot to shoot those bastards. Nobody should poop on Dad's truck! He's nice! Anyone who tries to harm him for no reason should be summarily eaten by snow squirls, testicles first!"

  I quickly get Jason into the passenger seat and secure his safety restraint, then circle to the driver's side, scanning the sky for further aerial threats. The geese continue circling but appear to be retreating after their initial assault.

  I settle into the driver's seat, checking the position to insure the vehicle is still applicable to my shorter stature before starting the engine. Jason stares at the dashboard with childlike wonder, his finger tracing the illuminated symbols, he able to see them due to them being pushing out from the truck's dashboard.

  "These little pictures are telling us things," he observes solemnly. "Important car secrets."

  "They indicate vehicle status and function," I confirm, carefully navigating out of the parking space. "The illuminated symbols suggest optimal operating parameters."

  Jason turns to me suddenly, his expression shifting to something more serious despite his dilated pupils. "You know what I just realized? You're driving my car. You. Grace!" He gestures expansively, nearly hitting the windshield. "From another dimension! Driving a car! Isn't that incredible?"

  "Adaptation is survival," I reply, employing my standard response to such observations.

  "I'm not that adaptable," Jason mumbles, slumping slightly in his seat. "Not really. I can learn stuff, sure, but... you know I only got the job at Northern Edge because I happened to look on Indeed? They needed someone who could handle their paperwork because Dave and Carter and Mike were all hopeless with technology. That's it. Just dumb luck. Raj hadn't even joined them yet, and I wasn't even going to do it, then I accidentally opened the email, and decided to just go for it because, it was already open and all that."

  His self-deprecation creates an unexpected response—a desire to correct his assessment that serves no tactical purpose although has been growing stronger since I first noticed it during my initial demonstration at the survivel school several days earlier.

  "No, but seriously," Jason continues, his hand landing on my arm with unusual tactile boldness. "Two weeks ago, you were completely frozen on my doorstep. And now you're driving dad's truck and just got hired at a survival school and have a little orange kitten that sleeps on your face. That's..." he pauses, seemingly searching for adequate terminology, "...that's fucking wild, Grace."

  The unexpected warmth in my chest intensifies at his words, accompanied by an unfamiliar tightness in my throat. His observation contains no tactical value yet creates this physiological response I cannot properly categorize.

  "My adaptation has been expedited by your assistance," I acknowledge, navigating onto the main road with careful precision. "Your guidance has been helpful, Jason."

  Jason laughs—a freer, more uninhibited sound than his usual carefully measured chuckles. "Helpful! Grace, you literally gave me my sight. You made me see! And all I did was show you how to use an air-fryer once and explain Netflix when you asked."

  "You provided shelter without tactical advantage," I counter, maintaining optimal distance from surrounding vehicles. "You shared resources without expectation of equivalent exchange. You adapted your communication patterns to accommodate my unfamiliarity with social protocols. You do not command me, despite you're ability to do so."

  The chemical alteration appears to have removed Jason's usual barriers against direct emotional expression. His face displays each feeling with exaggerated transparency—surprise, followed by thoughtfulness, then something warmer.

  "Huh," he says finally. "I guess I did do those things. But they're just... they're just normal human decency, you know? Basic stuff."

  "Not in my experience," I reply honestly. "In my homeland, such behavior would be considered tactically unsound. Potentially fatal."

  Jason's expression shifts again, his brow furrowing despite the relaxation effects of the gas. "That's so sad, Grace. That's just... really fucking sad." He reaches out again, his fingers wrapping around my wrist—an uninvited contact I would normally reject but find I can tolerate from him. "I'm glad you're here now. In this car. With me."

  The simple statement carries disproportionate emotional weight, though I lack adequate framework to process it fully. I file the interaction for later analysis when my focus is not required for continueing to drive this vehicle and insureing that Jason does not hurt himself.

  "We will arrive at your dwelling in approximately twelve minutes," I inform him, calculating based on current traffic patterns. "You should rest when we return. The chemical effects will diminish more rapidly with reduced stimulation."

  "Our dwelling," Jason corrects, his head now leaning against the window, eyelids growing heavier. "It's your home too now, Grace. You and Kitten. Part of the family. Mine."

  Family. Clan. Belonging. Mine.

  These concepts carry different weight in my homeland—practical alignments for survival rather than emotional connections. Yet Jason's chemical-enhanced declaration creates another instance of the chest warmth I've been experiencing with increasing frequency. Or, perhaps, his igknowledgment of something that I, at least, have not voiced out loud. After all, though I have no reason why Jason would, he could request me to leave, or Bearee and Magnen could tire of my continued use of resources, and I would have no reason to remaine.

  "Rest now," I instruct softly, recognizing his consciousness is beginning to fade as the chemical effects shift toward sedation. "I will ensure your safe return."

  As Jason's breathing patterns settle into the rhythm of light sleep, I continue navigating through Toronto's afternoon traffic, mentally cataloging this new experience. Dentists. Nitrous oxide. Chemically altered consciousness as voluntary medical protocol.

  Another puzzle piece in understanding this strange, soft world where Jason could grow up blind yet survive to adulthood. Where strangers offer jobs based on skill demonstrations. Where a frozen ranger from another dimension can find herself driving a truck called Toyota, returning to what Jason insists on calling "home."

  The warmth in my chest doesn't dissipate, despite its tactical irrelevance. Another adaptation, perhaps. Another way this world is changing me. I find, to now my not surprise, that I do not wish it to stop doing so.

  For now, I focus on the road ahead, maintaining optimal vehicle positioning while occasionally glancing at Jason's sleeping form. The "meat-starfish" comment makes more sense than he realizes. His hands do resemble starfish—especially the left one, curled loosely in his lap, vulnerable and trusting in unconsciousness. The fact I should not know what a "starfish" is is a fact I will fle away for later analysus along with the others of this strange day.

  Such trust would be a fatal liability in my homeland. Here, it feels like something else entirely.

  Something I'm not quite ready to name.

  ---Magnen---

  I step through the connecting door from our unfinished basement space, architectural plans still fresh in my mind. The half-completed renovation has been on hold since winter set in—Toronto concrete work in February isn't something you do if you know concreete—but with spring approaching, I've been revisiting the design. Maybe a proper workshop space along the east wall, better lighting throughout...

  My thoughts scatter as the front door opens, revealing Grace's compact form silhouetted against the afternoon light. She moves with that eerie precision of hers, each step perfectly measured despite the unusual burden she carries—my fully grown son, cradled against her chest like he weighs nothing at all, also snoreing and druling slightly, the little ribbin dribbling onto Grace's shirt, though she doesn't appear to either notice or care.

  "Jesus," I breathe, setting the plans on the hall table. "What happened?"

  "The dental appointment proceeded as expected," Grace says, her voice characteristically even despite carrying a grown man through the doorway. "Jason is currently compromised due to chemical sedation. The dentist indicated this is a normal response to nitrous oxide." Before: "I will not leave him in the car alone."

  Jason's head rests against her shoulder, his face slack with sleep, a thin line of drool glistening at the corner of his mouth. The contrast between his 5-10 frame and her much smaller one should make this scene ridiculous, but there's something unnervingly natural about the way she holds him—like carrying unconscious adults is just another Tuesday for her.

  "He should be in bed," I say, moving toward them. "Let me help you—"

  "Unnecessary," Grace responds, already navigating toward the stairs with smooth efficiency. "I can manage his weight without assistance."

  I follow her up, unsure what else to do. The house feels different with Grace in it—less predictable, more alive somehow. Like having a wolf move into your living room and politely use coasters for its water bowl.

  "How long will his recovery take?" Grace asks as we reach the top of the stairs. "Based on his previous experiences with this procedure."

  "Previous—? Oh, right." I rub my jaw thoughtfully. "Last time he had dental work with gas, he was groggy for about three hours, then a bit loopy for another hour after that. He should be fine by dinner."

  She nods once, a precise motion that somehow conveys both understanding and calculation. "Several geese defecated on your truck," she states without preamble as we reach Jason's bedroom door. "Jason expressed significant distress at this occurrence."

  "They what?" I blink, thrown by the abrupt subject change.

  "Geese. Approximately seven individuals. They appeared to deliberately target your vehicle while we were exiting the dental facility." She maneuvers through Jason's doorway without bumping his limbs against the frame. "Jason indicated a desire for a slingshot so he could, quote, 'summarily shoot any bastards who try to harm Magnen for no reason, because Magnen is nice.'"

  There's something in how she recites Jason's words—a subtle softening around her eyes, a barely perceptible change in her voice—that makes me wonder if she finds his protective instinct... endearing? It's hard to tell with Grace. Her emotional range seems to exist in microexpressions that flash across her face faster than most people can track.

  She lays Jason on his bed with surprising gentleness, taking a moment to remove his shoes and position him on his side. "The dentist recommended this position until the numbness subsides," she explains, placing a pillow behind his back for support. "To prevent choking hazards."

  I watch from the doorway, struck by the contradictions she embodies. Everything about her screams precision and danger—from her economical movements to the knife she somehow always has on her person despite never visibly carrying one. Yet here she is, arranging my son on his bed with the careful attention of a field medic.

  "Will Jason recover in time for the tabletop role-playing game?" she asks, straightening from the bed. "He seemed to enjoy the activity last week."

  "The D&D game? Yeah, it doesn't start until eight—he'll be fine by then." I lean against the doorframe, studying her. "Dave's group, right?"

  "Yes." Grace turns toward me, her posture military-straight as always. "I am now employed at Northern Edge Survival School. Dave extended the offer after my demonstration of survival techniques, and the interview process has now been compleetid."

  "Congratulations," I say, automatically extending my hand for a clap on the shoulder before remembering and aborting the gesture mid-movement. "That's great news."

  "Thank you," she replies, subtly shifting her weight to maintain optimal distance from my aborted touch. "I do not enjoy being touched, though I appreciate the sentiment your gesture was intended to convey."

  What she doesn't say—and what I don't comment on—is the fact that she just carried my son up a flight of stairs, cradled against her body, and seemed perfectly comfortable with that extended physical contact. The contradiction is fascinating from an analytical perspective, though I suspect asking about it would yield either a tactical explanation or a blank stare.

  "Would you consider some future small-scale renovations to enhance your kitchen's thermal efficiency?" she asks suddenly, those intense green eyes fixed on me with disconcerting focus. "The current configuration wastes approximately seventeen percent of generated heat."

  This conversational pivot is pure Grace—utterly unpredictable yet delivered with such matter-of-fact confidence that it almost seems like a natural progression of thought. Also, considering what the woman's done so far, it might actually just be that, least for her.

  "Sure," I reply, genuinely intrigued despite myself. "I've been meaning to upgrade some of the appliances anyway. What did you have in mind?"

  She launches into a surprisingly detailed analysis of our kitchen's thermal properties, complete with specific recommendations for ventilation modifications and something called "strategic radiant barriers." Her understanding of structural engineering principles is impressive, if unorthodox. Where my approach is grounded in standard architectural practices, hers seems based on wilderness survival techniques adapted to construction, as I mostly just update and think of better methods to build on Grace's ideas.

  "—which would reduce thermal loss by approximately twelve percent," she concludes. "Though implementing all recommended modifications would require temporary kitchen inaccessibility for approximately forty-eight hours."

  "I'll need to draw up some plans, but those are solid ideas," I acknowledge, genuinely impressed. "Where did you learn about heat management systems?"

  "Survival necessity," she replies simply. "In my homeland, inefficient heat retention equals death. Our settlements required constant optimization to sustain life through winter months."

  There's always something vaguely apocalyptic about her casual references to "my homeland." Bearee thinks she might be from some extreme religious community or isolated survivalist compound. I'm not convinced either explanation fully accounts for Grace's... uniqueness.

  A soft mumble from Jason's bed draws Grace's attention instantly, her head turning with predatory focus. He shifts slightly but doesn't wake before curling into a little ball, knees tucking around his head, arms pulling tight while he mutters about warmth and not likeing cold.

  "There is another matter I wished to discuss," she says, turning back to me. "I would like your opinion on taking Jason into the forest for a three-day survival training exercise next week."

  "Into the forest?" I repeat, though I shouldn't be as surprised as I am.

  "Yes. Dave has provided appropriate equipment and suggested a suitable location." Her posture somehow becomes even more precise. "Jason is aware of this plan and has expressed enthusiasm. Bearee has granted permission, but I wished to consult you as well. As Jason's father, you have insights Bearee may not possess, and your opinion is valued by Jason."

  "I see." I rub my beard thoughtfully. "And this would be just the two of you? No Dave or the others?"

  "Correct. Dave suggested a private expedition would facilitate more intensive instruction without distraction." She pauses, then adds with characteristic directness, "Jason requires focused training in wilderness survival techniques. His current capabilities are... incomplete."

  The front door opens downstairs—Bearee returning from her afternoon clients. Her footsteps move through the kitchen toward the stairs.

  "Did I hear something about Jason and forests?" Bearee asks as she reaches the top landing, her therapist's intuition for ongoing conversations as sharp as ever. She spots Jason's sleeping form through the open door. "Is he alright?"

  "Dentist," I explain. "Grace was just telling me about a proposed survival training trip."

  "Oh yes," Bearee nods. "Grace spoke with me about it yesterday. I think it's a wonderful opportunity for Jason to develop new skills. And I'm very grateful she followed traditional protocols from her homeland by asking the mother's permission first."

  Grace inclines her head in a gesture that somehow communicates both acknowledgment and respect. "The safety protocols I will implement exceed standard wilderness requirements by approximately forty-three percent," she assures us. "Jason will not be permitted to attempt techniques beyond his current capability levels."

  "I trust your judgment," Bearee says with surprising warmth. She's come around to Grace faster than I expected, though I suspect their private conversation yesterday had something to do with that.

  "My primary concern," I interject, "is the weather. February in northern Ontario isn't forgiving, even with proper equipment."

  "Cold weather presents optimal training conditions," Grace counters immediately. "It creates consequential decision environments that facilitate rapid skill acquisition. Additionally, I have extensive experience in environments significantly colder than current local conditions. Jason will not come to harm."

  Something in her phrasing makes me pause. The way she says "current local conditions" carries an odd specificity, as if Toronto's winter might be temporary not just seasonally, but... jurisdictionally? I file the observation away with the growing collection of Grace-related things filed under, 'Grace'.

  "What exactly will you be teaching him?" I ask instead.

  "Wilderness navigation, advanced fire-starting techniques, shelter construction, proper knife usage, energy conservation methods, and the foundations of vigger—which is an internal energy system from my homeland."

  There's that word again—"vigger." She mentioned it once before when describing how she hunts, something about enhanced perception. Jason carefully changed the subject when I tried to ask more.

  "Vigger is the energy manipulation technique you demonstrated at Northern Edge?" Bearee asks, surprising me with her knowledge.

  Grace nods once. "Yes, though that was an advanced application. Jason will begin with basic circulation patterns and thermal regulation techniques."

  I look between them, feeling distinctly out of the loop. "I'm sorry, are we talking about some kind of meditation practice? Or martial art?"

  "It is an energy manipulation methodology," Grace explains with clinical precision. "Properly channeled, it enhances physical capabilities, extends sensory perception, and accelerates healing processes."

  "It's how she gave Jason his sight back," Bearee says quietly.

  The statement lands like a physical blow. I stare at my wife, then at Grace, then at my sleeping son. The pieces I've been trying to fit together for days suddenly snap into a pattern I can't unsee.

  "His sight," I repeat, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "You're saying Jason can actually see now? That wasn't just some elaborate coping mechanism or, well. Me leaning into things?"

  "His vision now exceeds normal human parameters," Grace confirms without emotion. "The vigger application was successful, though adaptation to visual processing remains ongoing."

  I sink against the wall, legs suddenly unsteady beneath me. My son—blind since birth, navigating the world through sound and touch his entire life—can see. Actually see. Better than normal, according to Grace's matter-of-fact statement.

  "Why didn't he tell us?" I manage finally.

  "That is Jason's story to share, not mine," Grace replies. "I would not have confirmed this information had you not already deduced id the previous week."

  Bearee moves to my side, her hand warm against my arm. "I only figured it out yesterday," she says softly. "I've been watching him adjust, little things like responding to visual cues without realizing it. I asked Grace, and she confirmed it, but said Jason should be the one to explain."

  I look at my sleeping son, thinking of all the times I wished I could give him sight—the birthdays where he unwrapped presents he couldn't see, the science projects built with my hands guiding his, the architectural drawings I described but could never truly share. And now, somehow, this strange woman from who knows where has accomplished what modern medicine couldn't.

  "It's why I approved the forest training immediately," Bearee adds. "She's already given him more than we could ever repay."

  Grace shifts slightly, something almost like discomfort crossing her features. "No repayment is necessary or expected. Jason provided shelter when I required it. The vigger application was... a balanced exchange."

  There's something she's not saying—I can sense it in the careful precision of her words, the way her eyes briefly avoid mine. But before I can press further, Jason stirs again on the bed, mumbling something indistinct.

  "Will you still be taking him to the forest, then?" I ask, Grace's gaze returning to me with that unnerving directness.

  Looking at her now—this small, deadly-serious woman who's apparently performed some kind of miracle on my son—I find myself reassessing everything I thought I knew about her. Maybe Bearee's right. Maybe what I've been seeing as dangerous intensity is actually something else. She's not a building project, after all.

  "Yes," I say finally. "You have my permission too. For whatever that's worth."

  She nods once, a precise acknowledgment. "It is worth a great deal, Magnen Stone. Your approval carries significant weight with Jason, and therefore with me as well."

  The statement is delivered with her typical flat affect, but something in the words themselves feels almost... emotional? It's hard to tell with Grace—like trying to read blueprints in a language that looks familiar but uses different symbols.

  "I will remain with Jason until he wakes," she says, returning to his bedside with silent steps. "Additional questions regarding the forest expedition can be addressed this evening, once his chemical sedation has fully dissipated."

  It's a dismissal, polite but unmistakable. Bearee tugs gently at my arm, and I follow her back downstairs, my mind still processing the revelation about Jason's sight.

  In the kitchen, Bearee begins preparing tea, her movements deliberate—giving me space to think. The kettle bubbles to life, filling the silence between us.

  "She's not what I thought," I say finally, staring out the window at our snow-covered yard. My truck sits in the driveway, splattered with what I now recognize as goose poop. "Grace, I mean."

  "No," Bearee agrees, setting two mugs on the counter. "She's not."

  "What exactly is she, then?" I ask, voicing the question that's been circling in my mind since that strange woman first appeared in our house. "Because normal explanations stopped feeling adequate about three minutes after I met her."

  Bearee considers this as she steeps the tea, her therapist's precision giving each bag exactly the same number of dunks. "I think," she says carefully, "that's a question we shouldn't rush to answer."

  "You saw her status window," I remind her. "You told me about it."

  "I did." She hands me a steaming mug. "But I don't think even Grace fully understands what she is anymore. She's changing, Magnen. Every day she's here, she's becoming something new."

  Above us, the floorboards creak slightly—Grace moving around Jason's room with unusual audibility. I wonder if she's making noise deliberately, letting us know where she is. Another small adaptation to our world that, by all acounts Grace didn't actually have to do.

  "Jason sees her," Bearee says softly, a smile touching her lips at the double meaning. "Maybe for the first time, he truly sees someone. And maybe, for the first time, she's truly being seen."

  I sip my tea, letting the warmth spread through me as I contemplate the strange young woman currently watching over my son. Whatever Grace is—wherever she's from—one thing has become increasingly clear over the past two weeks.

  She's becoming part of our family, meat-ripping teeth, mysterious vigger abilities, and all.