She opened the shed door, thinking that the noise would awaken him. But he slept on. The moonlight illuminated the room so that she could see him well enough. She stood watching his motionless form lying there on the pallet on the floor, flat on his back, his chin pointed to the ceiling, his breathing even and deep. Without thinking much about it, she moved closer to him, dropped to her hands and knees, and crawled up beside him, forming her body to his, smelling the earthy, outdoor smell of him. He reminded her of her garden—of dirt and weeds and roots. Perhaps that was why she had come to care about him. He reminded her of the thing that was most familiar, most natural, to her.
He stirred, then startled, pulling away from her with panic on his face. “What the hell?” he yelled.
“Shhh,” she said, scooting backward, away from him. “It’s just me. It’s just me.” She looked to make sure she’d closed the door, fearing his outburst had somehow woken her family.
He lowered his voice and pulled the blanket closer to his chest, like a modest woman, exposed. “What are you doing in here?” he asked.
It was a fair question. One she didn’t have an answer to. “I don’t know,” she admitted. She thought about it. “I had a bad dream,” she said, which sounded silly and childish.
He gave her a bemused grin and settled back down on the bedroll she’d made for him. He held out his arm, indicating she should move back where she’d been before she’d woken him. She did, lying flat on her back beside him, her chin pointed at the ceiling like his, his arm as her pillow. For a moment they both lay there in silence, breathing in unison in the darkness.
“I was worried all day, about you,” she said. “They found a body in the lake down the street, back in the woods. I was afraid it was you. I called you a few times, but you didn’t answer the phone.”
He remained quiet for a few minutes. “My phone was stolen,” he said. “I was in town to get some food. I was in line, and I wasn’t paying close attention and, when I looked back down, my bag was gone.”
“Oh, Jason, I’m sorry. That sucks.”
He twisted slightly toward her as he reached under the quilt. He brought his hand back out, revealing a switchblade in his palm. He flicked his wrist, doing the complicated maneuver to open it up, like an actor in West Side Story. “I wish I’d seen the guy who stole it. I’d have used this on him.”
“Jason, you shouldn’t have that. It’s d-dangerous.” She ignored the thought that accompanied those words: He’s dangerous.
“I got it when I lived on the streets in the city. You have to have something there, just to flash around, you know, so people will know not to mess with you. I’ve just always kept it on me. You never know.” He shrugged, did the fancy maneuver again, and repocketed the knife. “I promise I’ve never used it. Not once.” He looked at her, made a sheepish face. “Sorry if it scared you.”
“I just don’t like knives. Or guns.”
“This from the woman whose hands are basically lethal weapons.”
They both laughed at that, each recalling how they had met, grateful for the release of shared laughter.
He changed the subject. “The biggest bummer is that I used that number on the applications I submitted, so if anyone calls, I’ll never know. But hey, some other bum might get a job now.” He tried to laugh at his joke. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna call anyway. No one wants a homeless druggie working for them.”
“Ex-druggie,” she said. She paused. “Right?”
He gave her the same bemused grin. “Yes, ex.”
“I was worried today that that’s what happened. That you’d had a weak moment and maybe done some drugs and OD’d—I saw on Dr. Phil once how it’s easy for people who get clean to OD because they go back and do the same amount they used to—or whatever—and it’s too much because they’ve lost their tolerance and so it kills them and . . .” The worries of the day rushed back in a whoosh of emotion. The tears came, and she knew she was powerless to hold them in. “I was afraid that’s what had happened and maybe you’d fallen in that lake and it was you they found.” She didn’t know if he could even understand her through her tears.
He pulled her to him. “Shhh,” he said. “I’m here. I’m OK. I’m sorry I scared you.”
She nodded into his shoulder. Again, they were silent. As each minute passed, they relaxed into each other more and more.
She was starting to think he’d fallen back asleep, when he spoke. “I have to admit: it’s nice to have someone worried about me. Someone who’s waiting to see if I come home.” He chuckled. “Though I guess this isn’t really a home.”
“It’s a start,” she said.
“You really think that?” This time he sounded like a child, small and scared.
“I do,” she said.
“Thank you. For believing in me. I can’t tell you—I mean I honestly can’t put into words—just how much that means to me. How much you’ve helped me. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t found me that day sneaking out of here.”
“I’ll get you another phone. Tomorrow,” she said.
He raised up on his elbow and looked down at her. “It is tomorrow,” he said.
She smiled up at him, thinking what they must look like, huddled together in a garden shed, on a bedroll, her in a white old-lady nightgown, him in the clothes he’d worn that day, both of them grinning like idiots. “I guess it is,” she said. And then he kissed her, just a chaste touch of his lips on hers, there and gone. But the touch memory, and the feeling that came with it, would stay with her for hours.
“I should get back inside,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And I’m sorry if that was wrong of me to do.”
“It wasn’t wrong,” she said. And as she said it, she knew that that wasn’t true, but it was true, all at the same time.
Nico
He’d made John Hobgood, the medical examiner, promise to call him as soon as an ID was made on the body, no matter how late it was. He’d slept with his phone on, resting on his chest so it would wake him. He was a notoriously deep sleeper, thanks to spending his youth sharing a room with Matteo, who had been a night owl, playing music, talking on the phone, leaving the lights on till the wee hours. Nico had had to get his sleep somehow, burrowing into unconsciousness with the same determination and tenacity he applied to the rest of his life. He didn’t know whether to blame Matteo or thank him for that.
When the phone rang in the wee hours, he woke up, immediately alert and aware, none of the usual confusion and fog clinging to him. He knew exactly who would be calling and why.
He answered the phone. “It’s him, isn’t it?” was all he said.
There was a pause. “Yeah,” Hobgood said. There was another pause. “I’m so sorry, man,” he added.
Nico found that he couldn’t form words to answer his friend, a man who’d bent some rules and outright broken others for him on investigations in the past. A man he owed many favors to. A man who would understand that he simply couldn’t speak at that moment. A man who would expect that the only response he’d receive from Nico was the dial tone buzzing in his ear.