"I know you're not leaving. I told the captain you wouldn't leave. He said to come tell you anyway and make you sign a form to cover our ass."
"Are you serious? There's really a form?"
"There's always a form." He pulls a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. "Sign this so I can tell my boss I did my job and then we can skip to the part where I call you an idiot and you agree with me."
I take the paper and sign it against the side of the building. Mickey watches me, and then his eyes slide past me to Stormy, who has gone completely still and two shades paler near the ladder. He's holding a hammer at his side and he's looking at Mickey's uniform with an expression I can only describe as terror. Quiet, contained, but there. His eyes move from the badge to the gun on Mickey's hip to the cruiser in the parking lot. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Exits, distances, options.
"Who's your new friend?" Mickey asks.
"This is Stormy. He's hanging out here and helping me prep for the storm."
"Stormy." Mickey looks at me with an expression that says we'll talk about this later. "That a first name or a last name?"
"It's a special Big Tex name. You know how I am."
Mickey knows exactly how I am. He's watched me name stray cats, bar regulars, and a heron that hangs around the parking lot every summer. He nods and turns to Stormy.
"Nice to meet you, Stormy. I'd tell you to talk some sense into this man but I've been trying for twenty years and it hasn't worked yet." He extends his hand to him.
Stormy looks at the hand and goes dead still. He doesn't take it. The moment stretches just a beat too long, and then he whispers, "Hi," without moving.
Mickey, to his credit, drops his hand and doesn't make it a thing.
I love Mickey for that. He reads people almost as well as I do.
"Alright," Mickey says, turning back to me. "You've signed the form. You're officially no longer the county's problem. I'll check in when I can but after six, we're pulled back to inland operations. No rescue, no response. You understand that?"
"Perfectly."
"You've got food? Water? Batteries?"
"All of the above. And plywood, which is what we were working on before you showed up with your paperwork."
He shakes his head. "Your daddy was just as bad." He claps me on the shoulder. "Take care, Tex. I mean it. Call me. You know I'd come even if I'm not supposed to."
"I will."
He heads back to the cruiser, and I hear him mutter "stubborn damn fool" before he closes the door. Same thing Sheila said. They're not wrong.
I turn back to Stormy. He's still standing by the ladder, gripping the hammer, and the tension in his body has only dropped a little since Mickey pulled away.
"That's Mickey," I say. "Known him since seventh grade. He's good people. Also terrible at darts, which he blames onthe fact that he's left-handed, but I've seen left-handed people throw darts just fine so I think he's just bad."
Stormy doesn't laugh, but the tension in his shoulders releases a fraction.
"He's a cop," Stormy says.
Not a question. A statement. Flat and careful.
"Yep, he sure is. Also, my best friend since before either of us could grow facial hair, which in his case was ninth grade. In my case was about last Tuesday because I've had this beard so long, I don't remember what's under it. Could be anything under here. Another, smaller beard. A chin I'm not proud of. Nobody knows."
Nothing. Not a flicker. But he's not gripping the hammer like a weapon anymore, so I'll take it.
We work through the afternoon. We get every window boarded up, move the pool table bumpers and the framed photos and everything else I can't afford to lose up to the second floor. Then we wrestle Stormy's bike up the stairs, which is exactly as much fun as it sounds. The bike is heavier than he is. I do most of the lifting while he guides it, and when we finally get it parked on the second-floor landing, I'm dripping sweat and breathing hard.
"If anyone ever asks me how I stay in shape," I huff, bent over with my hands on my knees, trying to remember how lungs work, "I'm going to tell them I carry motorcycles up staircases for fun. It's my CrossFit. I call it CrossHarley. It's terrible. Nobody should do it."
Around five, I call it. We're done. The bar is as ready as it's going to get.
