Chapter five
Pratt
Iwoke to silence on the other side of my condo wall. No music bleeding through the drywall and no footsteps. Sully's place was quiet. That was data.
Game day.
I looked up at the ceiling, staying where I was. Two minutes, maybe three, on my back, eyes open, running the crease. It wasn't previewing the game tonight; it was checking the geometry: angles, depth, the left post to the right, and the arc of coverage from one edge of the blue paint to the other. My father had called it setting the house in order.
Next, the sequence. Shower first. Then I made the bed. I hadn't slept in it, but that wasn't the point. The point was that it was made, corners pulled, surface flat, the same as every other morning whether or not I'd used it.
The meal followed, breakfast or not: chicken, white rice, and roasted carrots, assembled in thirds on the plate without overlapping. I had not broken the pattern in six seasons.
Last step before my gear. Ten seconds of "More Than a Feeling." The lift into the chorus. I let it run once, matched the timing, and cut it before the second line.
My gear check took eleven minutes. I didn't rush it. Rushing introduced errors you didn't find until they mattered.
I was through the kitchen and almost out the door when I glanced at the counter.
The spare key sat where it had been since Sully dropped it in my palm the night he walked through the wrong door. I hadn't moved it. For weeks it had sat to the right of center, and I'd walked past it twice a day.
I picked up my bag and stepped into the hallway.
The elevator opened, and Sully stepped out.
He was in a knit cap and gloves, carrying a paper grocery bag from the corner store. He'd come in from outside. His cheeks showed it.
"You've got the face on. The serious one. I mean, the other serious one."
I opened my mouth.
The bag gave out.
Not dramatically, just the handle separating at the fold and the paper tearing clean. The bottom dropped out. One orange went left, and another went right. One rolled straight for the gap between the elevator door and the floor.
I moved my foot. The orange hit my shoe and stopped.
Sully stood over the wreckage, holding a box of crackers to his chest and two oranges in his left hand, doing a brief inventory of what remained.
I crouched, collected the one near the elevator, and straightened.
With my other hand, I tugged a plastic bag from my coat pocket and dropped the orange inside.
"You carry bags for emergencies?"
"Works." I handed him the bag, and he dropped the crackers inside.
"This feels important," he said.
"It could have been inconvenient."
Sully grinned. I adjusted the bag strap on my shoulder. "Good luck tonight," he said.
"Thanks."
I took the elevator down. In the garage, I sat in the car for thirty seconds before starting it. I drove north and focused on the game ahead.
Two weeks in, Holt was a better fit than any would have expected.
