She brushed aside her jacket to reach her phone, wedged in her jeans pocket. In the motion, her fingers briefly brushed over the grip of the 9mm Carl had lent to her, resting in its iwb holster. She was tempted to make sure, again, that the safety was on, but it was fleeting.

"Stop being a matyr," said Jordan, piercing a stuffed pepper with her fork and lifting it to her mouth. "You're fine."