Finn and Holt exchange a look. Some silent communication passes between them.
"Tell her about the chickens," Holt says.
"Oh god, the chickens." Finn's starting to laugh. "Okay. So this guy comes in—this is maybe six months ago—and his truck needs work. Transmission's shot, brake lines are questionable, the whole thing's a disaster. We give him a quote. Fifteen hundred, give or take."
"That's reasonable," I say.
"Very reasonable. We're not trying to rob anyone." Finn takes a sip. "So he looks at the quote. Looks at us. Looks back at the quote. Then he says, dead serious, 'I can pay you in chickens.'"
I blink. "Chickens."
"Live chickens."
"He tried to pay you in livestock."
"He had a whole system worked out." Finn's eyes light up. "Three chickens for an oil change. Five for brake work. Fifteen for a transmission replacement."
"Did you take the chickens?"
"No," Holt says.
"But we considered it," Finn adds quickly. "For like, a full thirty seconds. Just to see what would happen. Just to see his face when we said yes."
"You didn't."
"We absolutely considered it." Finn gestures at Holt. "Remember? You were actually doing math."
"I was calculating if fifteen chickens would fit in his truck bed," Holt admits.
"See? We were this close." Finn holds his fingers barely apart. "But then Holt remembered we have nowhere to keep chickens and also we need actual money to, you know, buy parts and pay rent and eat food."
"Practical concerns," Holt says dryly.
"Always ruining my fun with your logic."
"Someone has to."
The conversation continues—stories and laughter and easy comfort. The stars come out properly, scattered across the sky in numbers I've never seen. Finn keeps the beers coming, the music plays low, and I realize something.
"You know what I just realized?" Finn says, stretching. "It's been over a year since we had anyone new at these things. Like, actually new. Not just customers or people passing through. Someone who's staying."
"We don't do this with customers," Holt clarifies, glancing at me.
"This is just us," Finn adds. "Has been for years now. Just the two of us."
"Too long." Holt's voice is quieter now, thoughtful.
"It's been sad," Finn corrects. "Two sad bastards drinking beer and pretending we have social lives that extend beyond each other and Mitch's gossip."
"We have social lives."
"We really don't. Our social life is work and this and the occasional town event we can't avoid." Finn meets my eyes. "See? This is better. Now we have Scout. Things are less pathetic."
"Glad I could help with your pathetic situation," I say, but my throat feels tight because I'm realizing what he's saying. What they're both saying without saying it directly.
"You fit here," Holt says quietly, and when I turn to him his eyes are steady on mine. "In case that wasn't clear."
"I'm getting that," I manage. "Slowly. Against my better judgment and all evidence that I'm a disaster."
