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We lie there a long time. Long enough for the squares of sun from the high windows to slide across the floor and up the side of the workbench. Long enough for me to almost fall asleep.

At some point, I shift, and he pulls me back in against him without waking up all the way.

At some point, his phone buzzes on the floor next to the bed, and he ignores it.

It buzzes again. He still ignores it.

The third time, he reaches down without looking and picks it up, and reads it, and puts it face down on the quilt.

“Merek,” he says.

“What’s he want?”

“He wants to know if you’re alive.” Tav’s quiet for a second. “And I’m supposed to tell you something.”

I turn over. “Tell me what?”

He looks uncomfortable.

“The four of us talked,” he says. “Last night. While you were asleep on Lenart’s couch.” He clears his throat. “Tonight we’re all coming to dinner. At Merek’s. Merek’s cooking. Nobody’s scheduling anything.”

“The four of you planned dinner while I was asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Did Lenart put it on the calendar?”

“Merek wouldn’t let him.”

“It’s Sunday. I have to be at the Club by nine.”

“Dinner’s at six. I’ll drive you in after. William’s bringing the wine. Lenart’s bringing dessert, which means somebody else made it. Merek’s making the short ribs.”

“He’s making short ribs for a minotaur?”

“He’s making a lot of short ribs,” Tav says.

Chapter sixteen

Tara

Merek has made enough short ribs for twenty people, which turns out to be about right for four monsters and me.

Lenart arrived at 5:58 with a pink bakery box. William came in right behind him with two bottles of wine and a bag of ice for my knees. Tav brought me over earlier and helped Merek finish dinner. Now the four of them are around Merek’s table, and I’m at the end of it with an ice pack wrapped around each knee, eating slowly because my throat still hurts when I swallow too fast.

Billy Bob finished his prescription food in about ninety seconds. Then he started working the room.

He goes to Merek first.

“No,” Merek says, without looking down.

Billy Bob moves on to Lenart and sits on his shoes.

“He’s sitting on my shoes,” Lenart says.

“He likes you,” I say.

“He likes my shoes. They’re Italian.” Lenart doesn’t move his feet.