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I could be one of them.

The fish is perfect. Flaky and tender, the lemon garlic herb sauce is bright and rich without being heavy. Each bite tastes like something I’ve been missing my entire life without knowing it. Not the food itself, but what it represents. A date. An actual date with cloth napkins and wine glasses that don’t come from a gas station and a man across from me who looks like he belongs here.

Wraith cuts into his ribs with the side of his fork, and the meat falls apart. He takes a bite and closes his eyes for just a second, savoring it. When he opens them again, he’s smiling.

“Good?” I ask.

“Great.” He gestures at my plate with his fork. “Yours?”

“Amazing.”

Everything about this moment is amazing. The food, the wine, the way Wraith looks in his button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. How he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the restaurant. How my dress makes me feel pretty instead of practical. Right now, none of this feels like we’re running for our lives.

It just feels like we have a life. Together. Something real and peaceful and ours.

I take another sip of wine and let myself sink into the illusion.

This could be my life. Our life. Regular dinners at places like this. Conversations that don’t revolve around survival. Wearing dresses and drinking wine and worrying about normal things like whether I remembered to pay the electric bill or what movie we should see this weekend.

I glance around the restaurant, taking in the details. The exposed brick walls hung with local art and a chalkboard menu listing the daily specials in careful handwriting. The small bar in the corner where a bartender is mixing drinks for a group of women celebrating something, their laughter bright and genuine.

And, in the front window near the hostess stand, a small sign on cream-colored cardstock: Help Wanted — Server Position Available.

My eyes fix on it.

A job. A server position. Waitressing. Taking orders and bringing food and earning tips and having a schedule, and showing up every day to do honest work for honest pay. My own money. My own life. A routine that doesn’t involve looking over my shoulder or sleeping with one eye open or wondering if today is the day the Sons finally catch up to us.

I imagine it. Walking into Bistro Bellisimo every morning with my hair pulled back and wearing my work uniform. Learning the menu. Memorizing which table is in which section. Building rapport with the regulars who come in every Tuesday for the lunch special. Counting my tips at the end of the night and knowing exactly how much I earned through my effort.

Independence. Real independence.

The independence that Old June never had because she was too busy being controlled by Wraith.

The kind that New June could have if she just had the chance.

“You okay?” Wraith asks, and I realize I’ve been staring at the sign for too long.

“Yeah.” I pull my attention back to him, to our table, to my half-eaten sea bass. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

I could lie. Could say I was thinking about the food, or the wine, or how nice the restaurant is. Could keep this bubble of normalcy intact for a little while longer.

But New June doesn’t lie when it matters. She is responsible and makes hard choices and speaks up even when it’s uncomfortable.

“I want to talk to the police,” I say.

Wraith’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“About what I saw. When I was a captive. The informant. The murder. Everything.” The words come faster now that I’ve started. “I want to make a statement. Help them build a case against the Sons.”

He sets his fork down carefully. Too carefully. The careful that comes before someone loses their temper.

“June, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know. But I’ve been thinking about it more.” I lean forward, trying to make him understand. “This…” I gesture at the restaurant, at our table, at the normalcy surrounding us. “This is what I want. A regular life. A job. With a future that isn’t just running and hiding. And I can’t have that as long as the Sons are out there hunting us.”

“So your solution is to make yourself a rat?”