"It wasn't your fault."
"Tell that to Holt's leg."
"I'm pretty sure Holt already has. Multiple times."
Finn laughs, but it's hollow. "Yeah. Doesn't make it true." He finally looks at me. "You know what the worst part is? He doesn't blame me. Not even a little. He's spent four years telling me it wasn't my fault and I'm the one who can't let it go. Real fair, right?"
"Life's not fair. Trauma's not fair. The blast wasn't fair. But Finn—" I wait until he looks at me. "You pulled him out. You saved his life. That counts for something."
"Should count for enough that he gets to sleep in a real bed."
"Then let's make sure he does."
That gets a real smile out of him, sharp and conspiratorial. "Operation Bed Share?"
"Operation Bed Share. But we're going to need a better plan than just asking nicely because he'll say no."
"Oh, I've got a plan." He leans in like we're plotting a heist. "It's going to involve Gerald, those googly eyes, and one more stop on the way back."
"Why am I scared?"
"Because you're smart, Adler. Very smart."
The "one more stop" turns out to be a pawn shop where Finn buys—I am not making this up—an accordion.
"What are you doing?"
"Buying leverage." He's testing the buttons, producing sounds that could strip paint. "I'm going to learn one song. Just one. And I'm going to play it outside his window every night until he agrees to share the bed."
"That's psychological warfare."
"That's effective." He grins at my horrified expression. "Come on, Scout. Sometimes you have to fight dirty. And Holt Ward is the king of noble suffering. He won't do it for himself but he'll do it for you. We just have to make the alternative worse than his pride."
"You're insane."
"And you're in love with my best friend, so we're both making questionable choices." He pays for the accordion, tucks it under his arm next to Gerald. "Let's go home and make that man's life complicated."
The drive back is a strategy session mixed with Finn's increasingly confident accordion playing, which is to say it sounds like a cat being murdered but with rhythm. I'm crying laughing by the time we hit Coyote Bend, the parts list crumpled on the dash, Gerald riding shotgun, and the accordion wedged behind my seat.
"You're going to do it tonight," Finn says as we pull up to the shop. "After dinner. Corner him in the loft, tell him you know about the concrete floor, and threaten to take it yourself if he doesn't agree to share."
"And if that doesn't work?"
Finn hefts the accordion. "Then I provide musical encouragement."
Holt's in the bay when we walk in, still covered in grease, looking at us like we're tracking mud on his clean floor. Which, given the paint dust we're still wearing, isn't far from the truth.
"Did you get the parts?"
"Got the parts, got Gerald, got an accordion, got a plan." Finn sets Gerald on the workbench where the coffee mug used to be. The gnome's dead eyes stare at Holt with unsettling cheer. "Also I think we're both banned from that hardware store."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing provable." I hold up the bag of parts. "Everything you need. Plus googly eyes, but those are for a different project."
Holt looks at the gnome. At Finn's shit-eating grin. At me trying not to laugh. "I'm going to regret asking, but why do you have an accordion?"
"You'll find out tonight," Finn says, already heading for the door. "Come on, Gerald. Let's find you a nice spot by the bedroom window."
