"Landlord called it character," I say.
"That's not character. That's a maintenance violation." He says it like this is a personal affront, flat and certain, and somehow that's funnier than if he'd made it a joke.
"Yeah, well. Cheap rent, dry floors." I shrug. "You learn to sleep through things."
He watches me for a moment with that careful, assessing look. Then he nods and moves back toward the living area.
The rest of the rules come fast, delivered like a shift briefing: breaker box in the basement, each switch labeled. Thermostat in the main hallway --- don't touch his side. Quiet hours. The kitchen after five.
"Five AM?" I say.
"Ivy wakes up at six. I get coffee before she starts talking about dinosaurs."
"Smart strategy."
"You get used to it." He pauses, like the words surprised him. "The dinosaur thing. Some of it's actually interesting."
I look at him. He studies the wall just past my left ear.
"No excessive visitors," he adds, apparently deciding that was enough honesty for one evening.
"My social life is currently me, a fern, and that judgmental cat outside."
"Clarence isn't my cat."
"He's claimed your porch as personal territory."
"He's persistent."
"You said that already."
"Because it's still accurate," he mutters.
I take a sip of coffee. Beck's still standing there, arms crossed, running through some internal checklist to see if he's missed anything. He has the particular quality of a person who double-checks locked doors before bed --- not anxious, just thorough. The kind of thorough that comes from experience with things going wrong.
"What's your shift schedule like?" he asks.
"Twenty-four on, forty-eight off. Extra shifts when they're short."
He nods. "Station 7?"
"Yeah. Ambulance with Tommy Ricci," I say.
"Good medic. Quiet."
"That's Tommy." I lean against the counter. "You were Seattle before this?"
"Twelve years."
"Long time. What made you leave?"
His shoulders tighten. For a second I think I've stepped somewhere I wasn't invited. Then: "Needed a change. Slower pace."
There's more behind it --- I can hear it in the flatness of his voice, see it in the way he's looking past me instead of at me. But I'm not going to push. I know what it's like to have reasons you don't want to hand to a stranger.
"Copper Ridge is definitely slower," I offer. "Biggest call I've had so far was a woman convinced she was having a heart attack because her cable went out during Jeopardy."
His mouth shifts. Almost a smile. "Seattle had similar calls. Different excuses."
