Page 23 of Night Shift

“Yes.”

“So every morning, you just...give the sky back?”

“I do.”

“And you’ve been doing that forever?”

“Not forever.”

I glance at him.

“Close enough?”

This time, the smile reaches his eyes.

“Close enough.”

I shake my head. “And I thought closing a coffee shop every night was repetitive.”

“You complain considerably more than I do.”

I stop walking.

Erebus gets another few feet before realizing I’m no longer beside him.

“Was that a joke?”

He turns. “I am capable of humor.”

“Oh my God. The scones are changing you.”

“I find that unlikely.”

“It’s happening. Soon you’ll be using emojis.”

“I do not know what those are.”

“You’re not ready.”

He waits until I catch up before continuing toward the water.

Eventually, we reach a stretch of rocky shoreline beyond the last row of houses, where a weathered bench overlooks the bay. Blackthorn glows behind us, softened by fog, while the dark water ahead reflects the scattered lights along the coast.

Erebus doesn’t sit.

I do, then pat the bench beside me.

“You’re allowed.”

“I know.”

“Then sit down. You’re making this feel like a parole hearing.”

He sits.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

Normally, silence makes me nervous. I fill it automatically with weather, customers, or whatever minor catastrophe has overtaken Blackthorn that day, because silence usually means somebody expects something from me.