Page 21 of Puck You Both

THE SHELTER DOESN'T so much end the workday as slowly forgets about it.

Mama Paws disappears into the office with two volunteers and an armful of donation receipts. Everyone else drifts off in search of unfinished jobs until even Hendrix runs out of obscenities and tucks his beak into his feathers.

Which leaves the three of us scattered around the folding tables. Wall is pretending to be busy with his laptop. Patrick is pretending to review sponsor forms, which I know he isn't doing because he hasn't turned a page for ten minutes.

Oh, good. We're all being extremely normal.

I rearrange three clipboards and a stack of blank name tags, busywork so convincing I deserve a salary. Across the room, Patrick lifts his gaze.

We lock eyes.

The nod he gives me is tiny. Barely there. Anyone else would miss it. I know every version of Patrick's face, though, including the one he wears right before he takes charge of a situation and the one he wears right before he takes charge of me. This is both.

It's time.

My pulse kicks hard enough to shake the clipboard in my hand.

Patrick sets down the sponsor packet and stands. No rush in his movements. The man could walk toward an active bomb and make the bomb feel dramatic for ticking.

Wall sees him coming. I know that because his shoulders lock while Patrick is still six feet away, but he keeps his attention on the laptop

Patrick stops right beside him. “Wallace. A word.”

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Wall lifts his gaze and waits.

“Privately,” Patrick adds.

Wall studies him. The light catches the pale gray of his eyes, but there isn't a damn thing in them I can read. His face has gone concrete bunker. Even his ears have stopped betraying him.

For one horrible second, I think he may refuse. Then he closes the laptop and gives Patrick a tiny nod of his own.

Patrick walks first. Wall trails him toward the narrow hallway, three steps back, the distance exact enough to look casual if a person has recently suffered a head injury. As Patrick passes me, he plants another clipboard against my chest without breaking stride.

“Keep the hallway clear.”

Wall's gaze lands on the clipboard, then on me. I arrange my face into the trustworthy expression of a campaign volunteer who has absolutely no additional agenda. He follows Patrick into the hall anyway.

My heart thumps against the clipboard.

Hallway security. Vital charity work. I take my position beside a tower of paper-towel boxes and peer around the corner with what I’m hoping is dignity and subtlety.

The supply room is barely large enough for both of them. Patrick leaves the door open several inches, and through the gap I can see a narrow slice of him beside the cabinets and most of Wall, because there is no architectural feature on earth capable of reducing that man to a narrow slice.

Wall has to angle one shoulder away from a shelf. Patrick stands close enough that the toes of their shoes nearly touch.

I know the plan. Technically. It has several possible endings, and Patrick refused to predict which one we'd get.

Patrick reaches into his pocket, and Wall's eyes follow the movement. So do mine.

The puck appears between Patrick's fingers, held in front of his chest like a card he's about to toss onto a table.

Wall looks at it for a beat.

Then he reaches.

His fingers close around the puck. Patrick doesn't release it.

The tips of their fingers brush along the edge, Patrick's thumb near Wall's knuckle, both hands attached to six ounces of rubber neither of them needs help holding. My mouth goes dry.