“And does it?” he asks.
“It does.”
Keller studies my face, like he’s deciding whether I mean the numbers or the narrative. He lets it go. Keller’s always known which questions are worth asking and which ones cost more than they return.
The bartender drops a bowl of olives and something fried and unnecessary between us, then disappears. Keller grabs one, chews slowly, eyes unfocused like he’s running internal math.
The machine kept moving.
Keller taps his knuckle against the table. “Ports are steady. Lanes are steady. The brothers are bored. We're all here to run Stone Intermodal, but it's running itself.”
"Remember what I said. Boring is good."
He looks at me. “That’s usually when someone does something stupid.”
“Already accounted for,” I say.
Keller smiles, thin and knowing. “That’s why you’re the one in the chair.”
I don’t respond. Not because I disagree, but because I don’t need the reminder. The chair is mine, whether I acknowledge it out loud or not.
Keller’s gaze flicks past me toward the crowd. A laugh breaks out near the bar. A group of tourists, dressed too clean for this place, gather around a blonde in a silver dress like she’s a landmark.
How did they get in here? Probably the tight dress had something to do with it. Keller’s eyes narrow, amused.
Then he clears his throat and shifts the conversation like he always does when a room goes too quiet.
“So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tell me about this new audit process you’ve got the port managers whining about.”
“It’s not new,” I say. “It’s consistent. That’s what they hate.”
“They hate you,” Keller replies. “But they love the money, so it’s fine.”
“They don’t have to love me,” I say. “They just have to follow procedure.”
Keller laughs like I said something hilarious. “You and your procedure.”
“It keeps us operational, and it keeps everyone getting a paycheck they like.”
“It keeps you sane,” he counters. “Some of us thrive in chaos.”
“You thrive in attention,” I counter.
Keller presses a hand to his chest as if I physically wounded him. “How dare you?”
I take another sip, and for a second, it almost seems like before. Not before Dad died, before the days got sharp and every conversation carried an angle.
I don’t let myself sink into it. Keller leans forward again, elbows on the table now, voice lower.
“You been over to the bunker lately?” he asks.
The question is casual, but his eyes aren’t.
I keep my face steady. “No reason to. It's there if we need it, but I'm grateful not to. If you know what I mean.”
“Mm,” he says, dragging the sound out like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t call me a liar.
He reaches for another olive, then pauses with it between his fingers. “You ever think about what you want?”
