At five-oh-three, I unlocked it because Captain Pancake was still inside.
He emerged carrying one of Hank’s shoes.
“That is not yours.”
The dog increased his speed.
I followed him around the counter twice before exchanging the shoe for a biscuit.
Hank watched from the sidewalk with one bare foot.
“You taught him negotiation.”
“I inherited a damaged system.”
“That sounds familiar.”
I pointed toward the shoe.
“Do you want it back?”
“Yes.”
“Then avoid commentary.”
At home, I showered, changed into shorts, and made dinner.
I did not listen while cooking because knives were involved.
I did not listen while eating because I wanted to remain capable of swallowing.
At eight, I carried my phone onto the porch.
The sky had darkened except for a narrow orange line above the water. Insects moved around the porch light. Somewhere near the marina, music played softly enough that I could not identify the song.
I put in both earbuds.
Then I pressed play.
For the first few seconds, there was only movement.
A chair scraping.
A guitar string being adjusted.
Annie breathing close to the microphone.
“This is probably too slow,” she said.
Rachel answered from farther away.
“You say that about everything without drums.”
“I value momentum.”
“You avoid silence.”
“That sounded judgmental.”
