The plate and coffee mug are set down with two distinct clinks on the computer desk beside him, and Trip's glower flashes away from the tall window, to land on me.

"Here is your breakfast," I say. But then I look out at the blue sky and the tufts of clouds, examining the position of the sun's rays through the window. "Actually it's more like brunch now."

"I said I wasn't hungry."

"I know what you said. But Aubrey didn't buy it. She told me to bring you a plate and another cup of coffee—" I arch an eyebrow "—since you didn't finish your last."

Trip breathes an irritated sigh, rolling his eyes back towards the window.

Like a stubborn mule he refused to go anywhere near the dining room when Aubrey called us for breakfast. He cooped himself up in this office, no matter how much I tried to convince him he was being extremely rude—again. He even gave me his warning glare.

He wasn't hungry.

Aubrey didn't believe it, and she could tell I didn't believe it, even as I relayed the message over the dinning room table. Nope, he wasn't coming out. Nope, he wasn't hungry. All the same, she insisted on being hospitable to her stubborn-ass guest. After breakfast, she sent me in here with what I think she hoped was a peace offering. Even though, it was Trip who smashed Aubrey's coffee mug.

He should be the one seeking peace. The jerk.

After a moment of narrowing my eyes at Trip's back, drumming my nails over the wood of the desk, taptaptaptap-taptaptaptap, the defiant set of his shoulders lets up a few degrees. He turns his head towards the never-ending voices and babble and shrieks teeming through the house. And his gaze finally, reluctantly settles on the plate.

"What are those?" he mutters.

"What is what?"

He takes a step towards the plate, picks up the fork, and shoves the food around. "These."

"Scrambled eggs?"

"What?" His eyes meet mine. He honestly doesn't understand.

Bursting out a chuckle, Dax halts at the end of the couch, arms full and face half hidden with the towering stack of sheets and comforters Aubrey gave him. "You've got to be kidding me, Triple. You know how to hot-wire a car, but you don't know what eggs are?"

"I know," Trip growls, twisting around and shooting a icy look across the room, "what eggs are." Dax drops the sheets and comforters on the couch and pretends to be very interested going through them. Trip glowers at me again. "I haven't seen them like this."

"They're scrambled," I say, doing my best to bite down a smile. "The yolk and whites are mixed up. And Aubrey added some cheddar cheese. They're good. Try them."

After a slight hesitation and another miffed look at Dax, he stabs a fluff of scrambled egg with his fork and pops it into his mouth.

Eyebrows raised, tilting my head to look up into his face, I watch him chew. "Yummy?"

He stabs another, pops it into his mouth, and drops his fork to reach for a triangle slice of toast.

I'm unable to keep the smirk from tugging my lips. "And you said you've never lied to me. I knew you were hungry."

"I haven't lied. I didn't lie," Trip says around a mouthful, shaking his head. "I just wasn't hungry enough to go into that hellhole of a room." He juts his chin toward the wall.

"You don't like the noise."

Without answering, he stops, listening. Noah is screaming his head off as if on cue.

"That noise?" I ask.

He releases a low huff in response, going back to his food.

"He's only a baby." My thoughts rewind to the fit Noah pitched when Leah wouldn't let him pull her hair at the table just a few minutes ago. "And I'm pretty sure he's going through his terrible twos."

"The kid needs a muzzle."

"Yeah, well, so do you."

Tipping his coffee to his lips, Trip eyes me coolly over the rim of the mug.

I bite another smirk down. My gaze flickers over him. "How is your shoulder?"

"Fine."

"I should probably check it."

"It's already starting to heal, nurse." He must see the doubt fall over my expression, because he sets the mug down and adds, "I heal fast. You should know that."

At first, I don't understand how I could possibly know that. But a second later, I remember. He's a duplicate. Genetically mutated to have a stronger immune system, designed to stay healthy and heal quickly. I should know that. "That's right," I murmur. I didn't consciously move my hand, but now my fingers are running through my hair. "I forgot."

Trip grunts.

"I did."

"Forgot what, exactly? That I've been tampered with? Or that I'm a duplicate?"

"Both."

It's Trip's turn to look doubtful.

"It's not something I think about constantly." That's only half true. I try not to think about it. I try not to make the connections between the duplicates I'm used to seeing and the duplicate standing in front of me now. And I realize this conversation is getting a little too close to the topic of last night's argument. When Trip gives no comment, maybe thinking the same thing, I study the dark shadows under his eyes and change the subject. "You look like a zombie."

"Yeah, well, so do you."

"Thanks, Trip."

And like that, the tricky switch inside him flips. He glances at me sideways, eyes glittering with sly humor. It surprises me, as it always does. Those pale eyes are so much brighter, not so steely that way, and despite his stress, that's twice today he's given me that look—like he thinks something is funny. Like he thinks I am funny.

But then his gaze focuses past me, over my shoulder. The humor disappears.

"You guys are in a good mood."

I turn to find Dax standing a few feet away behind me. A smile purses his lips as he looks between me and Trip.

"We're bickering," I say, crossing my arms over my chest, shrugging. "We always bicker." But now my cheeks are warming. And now Trip isn't lifting his eyes from his plate.

I shift when Dax raises his eyebrows.

"Mm-hm. Okay." He strolls up and falls into the computer chair next to me. Still smiling. His eyes flick back and forth between us once more before turning to his laptop. "Anywaaay, Aubrey said we can sleep in here tonight." He nods towards the L-shaped couch and clunks away on his keyboard. "There's a full-sized pullout bed in that, and there's the other side of that couch, which means..."

Two of us get the bed. One of us gets the couch.

Suddenly, Dax spins the computer chair to look up at Trip. Elbow planted on the arm of chair, back of his hand covering his mouth, he tries to hide his grin. But he's failing. "Are you going to sleep next to Evette again, Triple?"

My face flushes with intense heat.

Trip stops, mid-chew, and fixes a Death stare on Dax. "Want to sleep on the floor?"

Not killing him must have granted Dax some sort of bravery towards Trip, because the threat only makes Dax snort with laughter. "I'm only teasing." He looks at me over his lenses. "Triple did fall asleep next you on my couch. And you did fall asleep next to him in my bedroom." The computer chair squeals as he swings it back towards his laptop. "But don't worry, I know you guys hate each other."

Embarrassment and anger for being embarrassed fire through my veins. Dax doesn't even know about the motel. And little does he know, just hours ago, Trip told me he didn't hate me. Fidgeting with the sleeve of my sweater, cheeks searing hot, I peek at Trip from the corner of my eyes. He's gone back to staring at his plate, stone-faced, giving no sign of what he is thinking.

An awkward, uncomfortable silence has fallen over us, and this new shift in the air—whatever or whoever it is caused by—bothers me. It frustrates me. I want everything to go back to the way it was twenty seconds ago, when I wasn't wondering if I was standing too close to Trip.

"Huh," Dax muses, turning his eyes up at the ceiling. "Now it is super-duper quiet in here."

I swat his arm. Pretty hard.

"Ouch. That's the same spot—"

"Stop it, Dax."

"Alright, okay, I'll stop." Dax giggles like a sprite, holding his hands up in surrender. But when he sees I'm not smiling, at all, his face falls. He clears his throat with a nervous cough. "Tough crowd." He dips his head and goes back to his keyboard.

I think I am standing too close. I take a step away from the desk, rubbing my arms, gaze fluttering over the windows, the bookcases, trying to find somewhere comfortable to set my eyes.

"I'll sleep on the couch," Trip says flatly.

"Fine," I say, matching his tone.

Neither one of us looks at each other. When the laptop speakers start to blast the sounds of gun shots and screams, I'm actually thankful for the distraction.

Trip releases a long, airy sigh and drops his fork, with a bit of a jerk. "How many times do you have to watch that, Dax?"

"What's wrong?" Dax asks, nose close to the screen. "I'm just trying to see all the things people are talking about. Like there's this one guy in the comments, talking about how you whipped those tires around. He says you look like a freaking pro. A lot of people think you're pretty badass, Triple."

And Dax thinks he's badass. Being scared half to death this morning hasn't changed that.

Dax watched the video eight times before we were called to breakfast, and he wouldn't shut up about it. All the while, just like when he was watching Trip hot-wire the car, that same wonder and childlike admiration kept twinkling in his eyes as he went on and on about the video.

In a little less than twenty-four hours the video, shot from a teenage boy's cellphone, went viral. Overnight, it spread like a wild fire over social media, and independent news websites jumped on board the hot news early this morning. Government quickly attempted to stamp out the flames by taking the video down on a number of websites, but... they were a hacker short, which Dax thought was hilarious and ironic. And they were too late.

Now the loudest, most repeated question of all continues to boggle the public:

Who is this so-called terrorist? Why can't Government determine his identity, supposedly? Where did he come from? Thin air? What, exactly, is his cause? Where did he learn all his tricks? Driving, fighting, pick-pocketing, hot-wiring, this guy isn't your typical terrorist.

People are curious. People want to know who he is, and Government is struggling to pump out believable lies.

Trip, though, doesn't seem thrilled. "You have something else you should be doing right now," he says, flicking a glare at Dax. "Watching that video isn't helping me get any closer to my file. Cut it off."

Huffing, Dax props his chin up in the palm of his hand, cheek bunching and squinting one eye. "File this, file that," he grumbles. "File, file, file. Sheesh. What's the point of deserting Government if you're not going to relax and have a little fun?"

Trip cocks his head, looking ready to hit Dax. If he does, I might not even step in this time. Go ahead. Just shut Dax up. But Trip doesn't get to move or speak before there's a soft knock on the door. We turn.

Aubrey sticks her head into the room. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Nope." Dax's hand shoots out to close his laptop, cutting off the video.

"Oh, good." Dressed now, robe gone, Aubrey steps into the room with an armful of chip bags, a package of cookies, and a box of canned soda. "I thought you guys would like some snacks in here," she says, smiling that bright-eyed smile.

"That's really nice of you," I say. "Thank you." Returning the smile, I watch her approach the desk, catching the light scent of her perfume drifting by. Then I glance aside at Trip. He's taken a small step closer to the window, head turned away, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

Aubrey dumps the chip bags and cookies on the desk beside Dax and stoops down to open a mini-fridge underneath. "I'll stick these sodas in this fridge real quick so they can cool. I also set out a few towels in the bathroom, so you guys can shower or bathe, whatever you'd like." She gestures with one of the soda cans. "The bathroom is upstairs, first door on the right. Use as much hot water as you want. The water heater is pretty big. There's soap and shampoo—men's and women's—and a box of disposable razors if you don't have any. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to ask, okay?"

"Okay," Dax and I say in unison.

She stands, closing the fridge. Her gaze sweeps towards the silent, brooding mule and his plate, and she looks a tad satisfied to see he's eaten half of his food. Absently, she starts bumping the, now empty, cardboard box against her leg. "You know I'm not upset about the coffee cup, right, Trip?" she asks finally. "They aren't my favorite. In fact, if you want, I can bring you all of them to smash. It'll give me an excuse to order that coffee cup set I've had my eyes on for a while now." She laughs.

But Trip's only response is a cold glance.

Still smiling, end trills of laughter still springing in her voice, she points a long nail at his plate. "Are you finished, honey?"

Honey. Another cold glance. "Yes."

"Alright." She steps around me to take it up. "Would you like some more coffee?"

"No."

"Is there anything you need? I'm about to head off to the store, so it won't be any trouble to—"

"No."

"Alright." She gives a nod. "If you think of anything just let me know. That goes for all of you, okay?" Her tennis shoes scuff over the carpet as she starts towards the door.

"Thanks, Aub," Dax calls.

Trip's eyes—his star eyes, as Aubrey had called them—switch to the window. Darting. Thinking. His bottom lip pulls inward for a moment. Biting. Debating. Then—

"Thank you," he blurts, and the second the words leave his mouth he's furious. Jaw clenching, eyes momentarily closing.

But Aubrey doesn't miss a beat in her steps. "You're welcome," she says over her shoulder, pleasantly, like she expected him to say it all along. And she brushes out of the room without another word. I catch a glimpse of her wide smile as she closes the door behind her.

The three of us are silent again.

Dax is grinning when I turn back to the desk, and Trip is avoiding looking at him. Even though, judging by the way Trip is gritting his teeth, he sees Dax's dorky grin in his periphery. Finally, unable to ignore it, his eyes flash down at Dax.

"What?" he snaps.

Dax shakes his head, still grinning. "Nothing."

"Get to work."

"Mm-hm."

"And shut the fuck up."

"Okay."

"And wipe that stupid grin off your face."

"Alrighty."

Trip has run out of orders. He fires a frosty look at me. But I'm not doing anything. I'm just standing here, looking at the sky. So, he turns and moves to stand near another window, away from the desk, away from us. Always hovering over windows.

Me and Dax exchange a silent glance.

Smiling, Dax mouths, I tooold yooou.

Yeah, he did. He told me maybe this place would be good for Trip. Funny how I hadn't believed Dax either.