Page 74 of Home Ice

When I finished, I stopped and read it. Then I started taking parts out. Finally, I was left with five words.

Rafe: no rush. I’m here whenever.

I sent it. Delivered.

While I sat there with the phone in my hand, the apartment was quiet enough to hear the refrigerator take a breath. The screen lit up while I was holding the phone.

Not Max. It was Niko.

Niko: Max just texted me.

The skin at the back of my neck prickled.

Niko: He’s okay. He wants to come by the shop tomorrow. He just wants to see me.

Max was alive. He wanted to talk to his brother in person. That made some sense.

Rafe: okay. tell him I said hi

Rafe: or don’t. whatever’s right. you’ll know

The dots came up. Stopped. Came up again.

Niko: I’ll know after tomorrow.

Chapter eighteen

Niko

The pins on the blanket chest were taking me twice as long as they should have. I kept working anyway, because slow work is still work, and the alternative was doing nothing at all. I struck the line, set the chisel, and took the waste out in thin, careful bites.

The block plane sat at the end of the bench, squared to the edge, where Rafe left it what felt like a lifetime ago. I had oiled around it, sanded around it, and set my square down on the other side of the vise to keep from disturbing it.

My phone buzzed against the tool tray.

Rafe: question. when you sand between coats do you go as light as the first sanding or lighter

Niko: Lighter. You’re not shaping anymore. You’re just knocking down what the oil raised.

Rafe: knocking down what the oil raised. ok. writing that one down

I settled the phone back on the tray. Before I could pick up my chisel, it rang. It was Ma.

“Have you talked to your brother?”

“Good morning, Ma.”

“Voula sent me another article. I read half of it and had to sit down. Niko, they have a photograph of Max from four years ago at a food drive, and they put it next to a headline that says duped. He organized that food drive.”

“The food drive isn’t relevant, Ma.”

“Nothing in the article is relevant, that’s my point, I’m making your point for you.” I heard her opening and closing cabinet doors and then running water. “And the boy, Rafe, is anyone feeding him? Or is he just alone in his apartment with the whole city writing about him? Athletes don’t cook, Niko.”

“He eats, Ma.”

“How do you know he eats?”

I thought about Rafe bringing Italian beef.