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“Eventually.”
Despite myself, a sound leaves me that isn’t quite a laugh. It disappears almost as soon as it starts, but Knox hears it.
His voice softens without becoming careful. “The truck still running?”
“For now.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s got a rattle near the front end.”
“And you haven’t looked.”
It isn’t a question.
“No.”
He exhales through his nose. “That truck quits on you, I want you to call me before you call a tow.”
“I can fix my own truck.”
“I know,” he says simply.
“Then why would I call you?”
“Because I said so.”
I stare at the floor, at a dark stain near the leg of the dresser that someone tried and failed to scrub away.
The answer is so familiar that, for one brief second, I can almost see him standing in front of me. Knox has never needed a good reason to tell me what to do. Sometimes, he gives an order simply because he knows I need someone to.
“I mean it, Wolf,” he says quietly.
The name cuts through the numbness more cleanly than the whiskey.
No one out here calls me that.
No one out here knows enough to.
“Yeah,” I say, the word coming out rough around the edges. “I know.”
“You need money?” he asks.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m working.”
“Doing what?” he presses.
“Whatever pays,” I say.
“That sounds safe.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Another pause settles between us.
