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I pause because Murphy offers affection according to rules no human has deciphered, and receiving it without requesting it means he has decided I am unwell.
“Connor’s fine,” I tell him.
His amber eyes remain on mine.
“He is,” I insist.
Murphy blinks once.
“You’re remarkably unsupportive,” I tell him.
Birdie returns from locking the back door and places her canvas tote beneath the counter. “He’s saving his emotional energy for the drive.”
“He hates the car,” I remind her.
“He hates everything, yet he participates when properly motivated.” She scratches beneath his chin, and he allows it for nearly two seconds before moving out of reach. “Besides, we don’t know how long we’ll be in Seattle, and you’ll only worry about him if we leave him here.”
Murphy looks from Birdie to me as if he understands that his evening is about to take an unpleasant turn.
“Fine. He can come,” I concede. “But you’re sitting beside his carrier when he begins singing the song of his people.”
“I accept those terms.” Birdie pulls on her jacket. “I’ll go home, grab an overnight bag, and meet you here in twenty minutes.”
“Thirty. I need to change upstairs and pack Murphy’s food, litter box, and supplies.”
“Twenty-five, and wear shoes you can walk in,” Birdie counters.
“I always wear shoes I can walk in.”
Birdie looks pointedly at my ankle boots.
“These are practical,” I argue.
“Those are practical for ordering coffee and making questionable decisions in attractive locations.” She opens the door. “Sneakers, Cass.”
The bell rings as she leaves, and the store belongs to Murphy and me. Rain taps against the windows while the building gives the small creaks I have known since childhood, though tonight they leave too much room for my thoughts.
I turn off the lamps aisle by aisle until only the light above the counter remains. Murphy follows, his paws making no sound on the old boards, and waits while I check the front lock twice. When I return to the counter, my phone lies exactly where I left it.
I pick it up and open Connor’s name.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard as I try to decide what to say. Telling him I’m scared feels too dramatic. Saying I’m angry isn’t true. Demanding an answer might make him roll his eyes, but that would sound like us, and I want things to feel normal again so much it hurts.
In the end, I choose the least alarming words I can manage.
Me: Call me when you get a chance.
I send the text and stare at the screen while rain runs down the dark glass behind it.
No reply.
2
ANDREI
I begin every day the same way. Before I check email, speak to an employee, or enter the office, I walk down the hill from my house and visit Walter. The vineyard can wait through the twenty minutes I keep for myself, even during harvest, when trucks arrive before sunrise and the production winery never truly sleeps.
Late September has cooled the air overnight, leaving mist pressed low between the rows of vines. From the stone path outside my house, I can see the first crews gathering near the eastern blocks, their headlamps moving through the dimness. The crush pad glows beneath work lights farther down the slope, where empty bins stand ready for the first fruit of the morning. Diesel engines murmur near the equipment barn, joined by the metallic clatter of a trailer gate and voices too distant for words.
