Page 20 of Dozer

I stare at him. "That is not an answer to my question, it’s a logistics update."

"It's also an answer."

I turn slowly toward him. Because those exact four words, delivered completely flat, was unmistakably a joke. A small one. Barely a joke at all, really. But it's there and I've caught it. "Was that a joke?"

"No."

"Did you just make a joke?"

"No."

"Yes you did." I point at him. "I heard it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He’s enjoying this.

"I'm very perceptive. It's basically my whole job." I lower my hand. "I catalog things other people miss for a living, and I am telling you, Dozer, that was a joke."

He says nothing.

"I would like it noted for the record that I found it funny."

"Noted." He says while I stare at him and I swear, I would swear to it in a court of law, under oath, forensic-witness style, that the corner of his mouth does something.

Not a smile, exactly, just a twitch and it’s gone before I can point at it and say there. That. Right there. I narrow my eyes. "You smiled."

"No."

"You did."

"No."

"You know, denying observable evidence isn't going to make it less observable."

"I didn't smile."

"Okay." I settle back into my seat. "You didn't smile."

"Correct."

"You are very convincing." The words drip with sarcasm.

"Thank you."

I look at him again, but he keeps his eyes on the road. There's something different about his face now. It’s a little less granite and a little more human. I like it more than I should. I decide he's secretly soft. Of course, this is now just a working theory. I’ll need more evidence and I intend to test it aggressively for the duration of the drive and possibly the duration of the job.

Possibly—

I stop that thought before it finishes. Because duration of whatever comes after the job is a dangerous sentence when I've known the man for approximately two hours. I don't need that kind of complication, I have enough complications.

A corpse, for starters. The classified evidence we're going to be transporting. The possibility that someone already knows we're moving it. And, if I'm being honest, the fact that I still don't know exactly what happens to me after this job.

"Road-trip music," I announce. If there isn’t some form of noise in this van soon, I’m going to lose my mind. Dozer's shoulders move slightly.

"What?"

"Music."

"No."