Page 22 of Dozer

He keeps his eyes on the road. "Your cat."

"You want to know about Dexter?"

"You talk about him like he matters to you.” Something in my stomach does an uncomfortable flip, the kind I generally associate with finding a body that's been moved after death or hearing a song my brother used to like on the radio in a grocery store. I try not to analyze my reaction too closely, because apparently the giant, intimidating operator who looks like he could snap a steel beam in half has been listening to me.

Not just tolerating the noise as I babble but actually listening. "Dexter is an eleven-pound orange menace who sits on my keyboard specifically when I'm closest to solving something."

Dozer's mouth twitches but he doesn’t say a word.

"He's done it for four years."

"Sounds like he’s strategic."

"You are giving him too much credit. Sometimes, I swear, he only has a single brain cell. He has absolutely no concept of strategy."

"That's what you think."

I look at him, but he keeps driving. I narrow my eyes. "Are you saying my cat is smarter than me?"

"I'm saying I haven't ruled it out."

I gasp. "That was another joke."

"No."

"You're getting cocky."

"I'm driving."

"Again, not mutually exclusive."

His shoulders move, just slightly. He's laughing. Not out loud. But I know it. I am damn good at reading people and I can tell. I turn toward the window so he can't see my smile.

"I've started to suspect Dexter's behavior isn't accidental. I think he's trying to teach me patience." I volunteer.

"Is it working?"

"No."

"Seems like he's failing," he adds.

"Exactly." I point toward him. "Finally. Someone understands me."

He gives me a sideways glance. "I think he's winning."

I stare. "Whose side are you on?"

"Dexter's."

"Unbelievable." I shake my head. "We go on one road trip and you think you know things."

"You invited the conversation."

"I did not invite treason."

"Noted."

There it is again, that almost-smile. "You're actually funny,” I inform him.