"By the way… I've been meaning to ask you something," William began, a touch hesitant. The words tugged Milagros out of her brief reverie.
She turned toward him and blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere far away.
"Yeah? Go on," she said, her tone dry, almost detached. Her eyes scanned the cafeteria—laughter, the warm scent of toasted bread, the quick flickers of curiosity from a few nearby tables.
"You're… turned, right? I mean, not born a wendigo?" he asked, carefully, as though the wrong phrasing might break something fragile between them.
"Yes." The answer came short, clipped. "I went through the Ikhtan Winter before I became what I am now. I wasn't born a flesh-eater, if that's what you mean."
Her voice stayed level, but the faint quiver of an eyelid betrayed her irritation.
"And what makes you ask?" she added, suspicious now.
