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“Silas called too. He wants you upstairs after the game. Said he has the medical update he was waiting for and owes you a conversation.”

For most of March I wanted that call badly enough to walk into his office without one.

I cut a piece of toast.

“What’d you tell him?”

“That you’d be there.”

“Bossy.”

“You pay me for it.”

The doorbell rings.

Ruth looks at the clock. “Mack.”

“You schedule him too?”

“No. Some people know where you live without my assistance.”

Mack comes in before I reach the door, garment bag over one shoulder and coffee in his hand.

“You look terrible.”

“I’m glowing.”

“You look separated.”

Ruth points at him. “Careful.”

“I edited.”

“Poorly.”

He hands me the bag.

“My suit?”

“You left it in my truck after Winnipeg.”

“That was months ago.”

“I know.”

“You’ve had my suit since November.”

“Found it Tuesday. I was cleaning the truck out.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Had the afternoon.”

Ruth looks at him over her coffee and doesn’t say anything, which from Ruth is a diagnosis.

She takes her coffee and heads for the door.

“I’m leaving before this becomes whatever it’s becoming.”