She cocked her hear farther to the side and scrunched up the freckles on her nose, the smile never quite fading from her eyes. “Dat isn’t a name.”
His hands, tucked away in his jacket pockets, curled tightly upon themselves, and his brows lowered and his lips twitched in something trying to be a frown. He still didn't look at her.
A name, a name, a name, a name.... "James." The sound was heavy in his mouth. Heavy and old and young. He tried not to think about what they would do to him for naming himself. If they ever came to get him. He didn't need a name. He didn't. Names belonged to marks and people and Pierce. Not him. He didn't need a name. He knew exactly who he was.
But she didn't. She didn't and she was asking without asking. Names were for people and she was one and she thought he was one too because he looked like one. Hard-learned lessons dictated his best chance for survival was to play along.
"James," he said again, and remembered that this name had belonged to the stranger with his face. He told himself that was why it sounded familiar. Nothing more.
