I’d been back at the station for about four hours when Cord found me under the engine doing a routine check that didn’t require my full and undivided attention, which was fortunate because my full and undivided attention was somewhere else. For two full days, it kept returning, without permission, to a hospital room and a ring and ten seconds that had been supposed to be three.
“So,” Cord said, from somewhere above and to my left.
“Nope,” I said.
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You have a voice that says things before your mouth does. Hand me that wrench.”
He handed me the wrench. My brief hope that he’d depart was dashed when he crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees. He had that look he’d gotten since Lucy. The one that was equal parts genuine happiness for whoever was in front of him and barely concealed delight at having company in the situation.
That should’ve clued me in.
“Donna Briggs called her cousin,” he said. “Her cousin goes to First Methodist. Half of First Methodist apparently goes to the Piggly Wiggly on Monday morning.”
I set the wrench down and stared at the underside of the engine as if there were some explanation for the fact that small towns were very efficient, completely uncontrollable games of telephone, run by people who—usually—meant well.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Chief knows.”
I closed my eyes. “How bad?”
“Moose cried a little.”
I came out from under the engine.
Jarrod Sato was six-foot-four and built like a small mountain. He’d once walked into a sliding glass door he’d closed himself thirty seconds earlier. Just now, he stood in the bay doorway with the expression of a man who was genuinely moved and was not embarrassed about it one iota. “Meatball,” he said with feeling.
“Moose.”
“You got married, man.”
No point in lying about it now. “I did.”
“To Ellie.”
“Also correct.”
He crossed the bay in three strides and pulled me into a hug that could’ve saved me a visit to the chiropractor, which was how Moose expressed most things he felt strongly about. I let it happen. When he released me, he held me at arm’s length with the solemn sincerity of a very large, very clumsy man who took friendship seriously.
“I always knew,” he said.
“Everyone apparently always knew,” I said.
“We did though,” Cord insisted from behind me.
“There was a bet,” Moose said.
I turned to glare at Cord.
Cord held up both hands. “It was before my time. The bet predates me. I want that on the record.”
“How long has there been a bet?” I demanded.
“Since midway through your sophomore year,” Moose said. “Twitch has the sheet. He’s been managing it. You should know that Donkey had you married by last Christmas, so he’s out, and I had you at—” He stopped. Did math. “Huh. I’m out too. Rico had this quarter, actually.”
“Rico,” I repeated. Rico was our newest paramedic. He’d been on the crew for eight months and had evidently assessed the situation faster than people who’d known me for years. I was going to need a moment with that.
