On The Edge of Something Breaking

Javi brought the motorbike to a slow stop and leaned it against a tree ten feet from the house. He had to hand it to Leo - from the offroad location to the shimmering view, he’d outdone himself, showing how well he knew what Javi needed to come back to himself after a job. Javi let himself in using the lock code he’d scribbled on the inside of his wrist. He’d given Leo his phone at the airport, with strict instructions to not let him have it back for a week, at least.

The house had cool tiled floors and two walls composed entirely of windows. Javi headed to the kitchen first, dumping his backpack on the counter and inspecting the fridge and cupboards. He smiled when he saw what Leo had ordered for him: apricot juice, sheep’s cheese, a sack of flour, an array of fruit. The eggs still had bits of straw and dirt clinging to their shells. A pitcher of fresh milk sat in the fridge, no doubt the work of some local goat. He grabbed an orange and broke the skin with his front teeth, savoring the bright, bitter burst of oil on his tongue before peeling and wolfing down the rest.

Javi’s backpack held two changes of clothes, his kitchen knives, and not much else. Leo had everything else covered, and knew Javi wouldn’t consider it true shore leave without the chance to cook for himself. He’d even left his gun with Leo, who took it with a kind of understanding in his eyes. Javi knew there were guys who’d never let their weapons out of sight, but he needed the respite as much as he needed the sunshine and rest.

He found bowls in a cabinet and put a few handfuls of flour into one, along with enough warm water to start some sourdough going. He found a drawer full of clean dishcloths, covered the bowl, and set it near the windows. In a couple of days, he’d have bread; in the meantime, he mixed up a second dough, found a bottle of wine and used it to roll out a thin sheet to make crackers. They’d last until the yeast was ready.

Javi whistled as he worked the dough, appreciating the way the scars on his knuckles disappeared under the flour and water. It hadn’t been the worst or toughest job he’d ever had, but the boss had asked him on the flight back to Greece, “How many years have you been in the game, Javi? Remind me.”

The question had been gnawing at him. The boss knew perfectly well he’d come in after the Iraq withdrawal and averaged four jobs a year - a respectable, if not particularly macho record. Javi had developed a reputation for precise, clean work: get in, get out, leave no trace. The boss only turned her attention to agents she was either tapping for “voluntary” resignation, or some kind of promotion.

Javi wanted neither.

Once he’d covered half the sizable kitchen counter in the thinnest layer of dough, he found the spices and sprinkled the crackers with coarse salt, sesame seeds, and a sprinkling of dried sumac, pressing everything in slightly. He pulled out a small knife and carved a series of neat triangles out of the dough. He was about to slide the first batch into the oven when a small noise caught his attention.

Javi knew he’d locked the door behind him when he came into the house, out of habit if little else - he didn’t expect visitors on some remote corner of Malta. But the outer door still had a screen, and the sound of little paws scraping against the mesh was enough to startle him.

He was being watched.

Some rodent with dark eyes and a curious face was peering through the door. A weasel, one of the local variants, Javi guessed. It was pretty cute - and probably helped keep the mice away. He didn’t move toward the door, but got back to his task, getting the crackers into the now-hot oven, and counting to 120 in his head. Two minutes, and then he could flip them over.

Ten minutes and a full batch of baking later, the weasel hadn’t gone.

Javi loaded a plate full of warm crackers smeared with goat cheese and headed over to the door. He stared the weasel down, crunching as loudly and menacingly as he could. The creature responded by cocking its head, its inquisitive gaze never leaving Javi’s.

Javi looked away first, then cracked another smile despite himself. He opened the door and walked out onto the wide, expansive deck overlooking the sea. The weasel didn’t follow him right away, but soon after Javi sat down in a cozy rocking chair and kicked his feet up on the railing, he looked down to see the weasel perched beside him.

“I’m not going to feed you,” he muttered. “But if you want to enjoy the view, who am I to stop you?”

The sun began to set as they sat, casting a palette of purples, grays, reds and oranges over the clear blue water. Javi’s fingers itched for his sketchpad, but he hadn’t brought it this time. He put his plate down without thinking about it, but dropped his gaze when he caught a movement in the lower corner of his eye. The weasel was picking up his crumbs and delicately licking them off its paws.

“I guess I deserved that,” Javi said, halfway chuckling. “You’re gonna stick around then, Little Thief?”

His grandmother had called him that when he was a child, snatching olives and almonds out of the bowls she kept on the counter. Never with less than total adoration in her voice, though. She wove love even into her exasperated insults. And damn if the little weasel didn’t look back up at him with some trace of the cheeky grin he used to give her.

*

By the third day, he and Little Thief had a ritual: coffee and crumbs on the deck soon after the sun rose, after which Javi would take a swim off the little dock down the long rickety staircase. A hundred and twelve steps: he counted. The weasel stayed up on the deck, sometimes standing on its hind legs as Javi descended, worrying his little paws in front of him. After a swim, Javi would make a fresh salad, bright with jewel-like fruits and fresh greens and accidentally scatter a few leaves as he walked across the deck to his favorite chair. Little Thief would gather them and pile them next to him, eating slowly.

It was slow and lovely and everything Javi needed to shake the blood off his hands and the screams from his ears. Until the nightmares started.

They snuck up on him; after a few peaceful nights of sleep, he thought he might escape them this time. But they showed up like an unwanted guest, tugging at his subconscious, forcing him to do things he did regularly enough on the job, but to people he’d once loved. Stealing from his Abuela. Silencing his favorite cousin. Standing guard over a locked room as his father did unspeakable things behind the door. The dreams never varied in their themes, but found fresh ways to torture him with all he’d left behind.

When he finally woke, he crawled out of bed, sweat-broke and shaking. He staggered out to the deck and leaned over the rail, emptying his stomach of the lamb and rice he’d had for dinner. It wasn’t until he heard the gentle, now-familiar rustling that he realized he wasn’t alone.

Little Thief was curled up in his favorite chair, awake and alert. His dark eyes shone in the moonlight. Javi wasn’t sure if he was relieved or embarrassed, or if either of those things were reasonable to feel about a weasel who’d taken up residence in his little paradise.

“I don’t have anything for you,” he said finally, as if Little Thief would understand him, as if talking to a weasel didn’t officially make him a madman, as if a weasel would care about an aging mercenary’s burdens.

Little Thief slowly got to his feet, raising his long neck and hopped down from the chair with far more grace than his body suggested possible. Javi stepped away from the railing and backed up until he hit the chair. He sat down with a little more force than necessary, as if someone or something had given him a firm push. Little Thief took his customary spot beside him with an air of what seemed like satisfaction, and looked out toward the water. The first hints of light were creeping over the sea. Javi burst into tears and let himself sob into the reassurance of the morning.