The Expansion of the Universe

Six | "Woof."

Alternatively, she also had no idea what she would do or how she would feel if he didn't visit.

"Could you describe to me your definition of the word, 'flaw,' Liza?"

Now that was actually an easy question, for once.

"A mistake. Something not good. It's a flaw if it's an imperfection."

"And so you believe his job is an imperfection."

"It's a mistake." Her tone was resolute. "I don't like it."

She hated it, in fact. Knowing he was a pilot sent a liquid terror zinging through her every blood vessel, leaving her weak and shaky.

"Do you think he feels the same way about it?"

Liza didn't like it when Dr. Whitney brought up reasonable questions that forced logic back into her brain. She also didn't like recalling the way Elijah had announce his chosen field, as though he was accepting a prestigious award of some kind.

"No," she admitted, defeated. "No. He sounded, um, he sounded proud."

Whitney nodded, clasping her fingers together and tucking them under her chin. "Let's talk about this more, and I'll ask that you think carefully about these questions. Do all pilots crash?"

Liza shifted in her seat. "No." If all pilots crashed, after all, no one would use planes as transportation anymore.

"And are all people selfish?"

That inquiry was much more difficult to answer. In Liza's most recent and defining experiences, yes, they were all selfish. They were rude and mean and uncaring of how their choices would affect others until it was far too late.

"Yes."

Dr. Whitney's lips pursed, a sign Liza knew to mean that the woman wasn't pleased with the response she'd received and was plotting another method to achieve the outcome she desired. "How has your friend shown he is selfish?"

The question brought Liza up short.

How had he?

Elijah had knocked on her door, but that wasn't selfish: he'd said it himself, he simply wanted to talk to her, even if it meant he had to sit outside on her front stoop for an hour or two. He offered her snacks, he didn't get mad when she freaked out about something that would seem silly to most people, and he never pushed her to go outside or let him through the door.

Elijah Harris, for all intents and purposes, was not selfish.

"He . . ." she trailed off uncertainly. There was a pressure over her chest, as though her body was protesting such an admission; after all, she hadn't seen a person as anything other than selfish since the crash. "He's not. Selfish. He's not. He hasn't done anything."

Her heart screamed at the admission, and she was quick to add, "But he might!"

"Are there any signs that indicated he's planning on doing something to jeopardize your friendship?"

Damn. Shit. Damn it.

". . . no."

"So, do you think he's the same as the pilots you've met previously?"

She licked her lips, cleared her throat again, and looked everywhere besides her computer screen.

Five or ten minutes must have easily passed before she finally returned her gaze to Whitney, who was waiting patiently on the screen.

"No," the word was a hoarse rasp. "No." Because Elijah with his Oreos and beef jerky and beautiful laughter surely did not seek to harm others. He wasn't like those other men, whose selfishness had led to the sound of bones breaking and the smell of burning flesh.