When Maggie played games, they were fast and quick. The snap of cards on a table or maybe a low, dirty laugh over a glass that skidded along wood into the flesh of a palm. She didn't have much patience for other kinds. Shane had set out the rules fair; everyone bunked down with someone else. That was how things were. She had been to boarding school where no one gave a damn what you thought, the rules were the rules. And she had worked when men who made the rules because they could, and people kept to them because the men who made them were obeyed. Maggie liked to save breaking the rules until later. She broke the stupid ones. The ones designed to hold you in. Tie you down. She didn't fuck with the keep-you-safe kind.
"There's stuff in the car," she said. It was volunteered, leaning against the plaster of the wall, watching. The prison heaved warmth but the wall was cooler, and she pressed the flat of her shoulder against it and got comfortable. She'd been asleep half the night, the oppressive heat held no appeal to lie down with a stranger and count sheep.
"Looks like you're short water. Got a couple boxes of soda." For the bar, loaded in alongside half of what she needed to live. The shades didn't slide down, the look beneath them was unshuttered; an offer rather than a remark.