Page 235 of What We Become

MILO

Five months later . . .

“The protocol signature Fenrir flagged last week matches three other nodes in the Pacific Northwest,” Holden says, swirling his beer. “Milo, correct me if I’m wrong, but if we cross-reference the⁠—”

“No.” Eli holds up a hand. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying, the Portland connection⁠—”

“Holden.” Micah puts a palm flat on the table. “We are at a bowls club. It is the night before our wedding. That is enough shop talk. We are on leave.”

Holden’s mouth thins. His eyes do that thing where you can see the case files trying to escape through his pupils. It’s very entertaining.

Micah holds his stare, steady and immovable, and after three seconds of silent standoff, Holden picks up his beer and drinks instead of talking.

“Thank you,” Eli says.

“He’ll bring it up again in twenty minutes,” I predict.

“Fifteen,” Knox says.

“I’ll take that bet,” I say. “Loser buys the next pitcher.”

Knox nods once. Deal made.

We’re back at Glenview Lawn Bowls Club, where the Perimeno-Bowls humiliated us and we eventually beat the Pen-15 Club. Same brick clubhouse. Same honor board. Same lingering suspicion that the retirees could dispose of us more efficiently than we could dispose of them.

I picked it for three reasons. One, the beer is cheap. Two, they let me book a rink under the floodlights. Three, we’re only competing against each other tonight, so at least one of us is guaranteed to win.

That’s the energy I want for the last night before I bind myself to five other humans and a terrier.

Well, technically the terrier is my sister, since Gloria adopted her.

“Traditional bachelor parties involve strippers,” I announced this morning while everyone was eating breakfast. “And since we’re all already sleeping with the bride—and some of us with each other—strippers feel redundant.”

Sage laughed so hard she spit coffee on the counter. “Go,” she said, shooing us toward the door. “Have your little boys’ night. Amy’s coming over and we’re doing face masks and watching terrible movies. None of you are invited.”

“That sounds significantly better than lawn bowls,” Eli muttered.

“It is. That’s why you’re not invited.”

So here we are. Five men around a table beside the green, two pitchers deep, and the scorecard is already a crime scene.

The format is my invention. Ten ends. Two bowls each per end. Closest to the jack takes the point. No teams, which means no teammates, which means nobody gets to blame anybody but themselves.

I’m beginning to regret that last part.

We’ve played four ends. Knox has two points. Micah and Eli have one each. Holden and I are maintaining a dignified zero.

“Okay,” I say, standing from the molded plastic chair and clapping once. “New stakes.”

“We already have stakes,” Holden says. “We’re bowling.”

“Those are default stakes. I’m proposing elevated stakes.” I hold up my hand and tick off fingers. “Tomorrow night, after the wedding, after the cake, after whatever unhinged sexual circus Sage has planned for us⁠—”

“She hasn’t planned anything,” Micah says. “I checked.”

“You checked?”