Chapter 58: Chapter 58 - The Gloves
Iyisha finished folding the last of her clothes and set the neat stack on the chair. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of voices drifting up from the courtyard. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands still for once, waiting for Malcolm to return.
The door opened with a low creak. Malcolm stepped inside, his boots carrying the dust of the yard. He closed the door behind him and looked at her.
"Did you already eat?" he asked.
Iyisha nodded, even though she had not touched a thing since morning.
Malcolm studied her for a moment, his gaze steady, then set his jacket aside. The silence stretched, heavy with what she had yet to say.
She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, the words dying in her throat. For a moment she sat frozen on the bed, her hands tightening in her lap. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out the two small boxes, setting them on the blanket between them.
"I got these," she said quietly.
Malcolm glanced down, then back at her with narrowed eyes. He picked up one of the boxes, turning it over in his hand. "Where did you get this?"
His voice was steady, but she could feel the weight behind it. Condoms were common in the safe zones. Handed out freely by the government after they reopened a factory years ago, trying to slow the wave of sexual infections that had swept through the camps. But outside those walls, among wanderers like them, the boxes were worth almost as much as medicine.
In the free zones, leaders had turned them into currency. And for wanderers, they were more than what they looked like. A waterproof pouch to keep matches or papers dry. A way to seal food or medicine against rot. Even used in first aid, stretched tight over wounds or tubing. They were never wasted.
Iyisha folded her arms, her face hot under his stare. "Mary gave them. She called it... payment."
Malcolm’s eyes stayed on her, unreadable, the box still in his hand.
"For what?" he muttered, still turning the box in his hand.
Iyisha hesitated, her throat tightening. Then the words spilled out. She told him about the missing medicine, about Waldo’s two choices, about the conversation that twisted into something else. She told him how Mary had tried to ease it, how she had pressed the boxes into her hand with a laugh, calling it payment.
Malcolm listened without interrupting. His jaw worked, the muscle tightening and loosening, but he said nothing until she fell silent.
"So we have a job now," he said finally. His voice was flat. "Escort them to Motherhood."
Iyisha nodded, her hands clenched together in her lap. She could not read his face in the dim light. She could not tell if he was angry, or if his calm was worse.
Malcolm set the box back down on the bed, his fingers lingering on it for a moment before pulling away. He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"You agreed to this without me," he said at last. The words were calm, but the edge in them made Iyisha’s stomach twist.
"I had to," she whispered. "He gave me no choice. It was this, or—" She stopped, unable to say the rest.
Malcolm’s jaw tightened again. "You should have told me sooner."
"I know," she said, her voice small. "But if I had left it to you, it would have turned into a fight. Waldo has people. It would have been messy."
He exhaled through his nose, a long breath that sounded more like restraint than relief. "And now we are tied to them. A job that will put us in every guard’s eye from here to the gates."
Iyisha nodded. "Yes."
Silence stretched between them. Malcolm finally looked at her, his eyes hard. "Why tell me at all if you already made the choice?"
Iyisha’s chest tightened. "Because you deserve to know," she said quickly. "We are heading the same way. It is only a thirty-minute detour."
His stare did not soften.
"I am sorry," she whispered. "But it was the best option. I could not risk worse."
Malcolm’s jaw worked, then he leaned back, exhaling through his nose. The edge in his shoulders eased a little. "If you believe that... then we do it your way."
Iyisha swallowed, guilt rising thick in her throat.
Malcolm rose from the bed and crossed to the chair in the corner. He lowered himself into it heavily, elbows on his knees for a moment before he leaned back.
Iyisha stood, brushing her palms over her skirt as if to steady herself. "How was your work?"
"Same," Malcolm muttered.
"Are you going hunting again?"
He pulled a clean shirt from his bag and set it across his lap. "On the weekend," he said. "It’s hard to hunt in winter, but it doesn’t hurt if we bring back an animal or two."
Iyisha nodded. The greenhouse crops, the small herds, and the government rations were enough to keep the community alive, but fresh game still made a difference. Every cut of meat stretched their supplies a little further, and the hides were traded for things they could not make themselves. Hunting carried risk, yet it mattered.
Malcolm reached into his bag again and pulled something folded. He held it out without ceremony. A pair of gloves, the leather dark and supple, stitched neatly from the hide of a deer.
"I got mine," he said, nodding toward the knife holster strapped at his side.
Iyisha took them carefully, the weight of them soft and solid in her hands. She slid them on, flexing her fingers. They fit perfectly, warm and snug. The stitching was tight, the seams smooth. They were beautiful.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice catching. "Thank you for thinking of me."
Malcolm only grunted in reply, already turning back to his bag.
"I still need to pay for that one," he added, as if the thought mattered more than the gift itself.
But Iyisha was already smiling, her heart lifting in spite of everything. She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her hands out in front of her, turning them slowly as she admired the gloves. They were more than just protection from the cold. They were proof that, even if he would not say it, he thought of her.
The leather caught the dim light, every stitch neat and strong. It amazed her that in this world, with so much broken, there were still people who could make something so well. That such skill had not vanished.
She smiled faintly, whispering, "They are wonderful."
But Malcolm was already on his feet, crossing the room toward the bathroom with his clean clothes in hand.
Iyisha watched him go, her fingers still flexing in the gloves, holding on to the small warmth the gift had given her.
The gloves were proof he thought of her, yet the closed bathroom door reminded her how far away he still was.
