Page 49 of Into the Fire

“Yes, he said they came from Nash’s neighbor.”

“Nash has them on his sandwich every day.”

“I’ve been eating them for three weeks. I hate them now. Eat one.”

I got into Boone’s space, opening drawers, looking for a knife. He worked around me without telling me to move.

“I’ve been thinking about Nash,” he said as he diced peppers.

“You’re going to do this while we’re both armed with knives?”

He ignored my comment. “You said I’m scared of getting somebody wrong. That’s not off, but drop the key ring for a minute and give me a different list. Who else touches records and rigging both?”

“Marty would be better at building that list than me.”

“But is that what you’d do? Look for the other options?”

I leaned on the counter. “I’d stop building lists for one evening. Not forever. Tonight only.”

He didn’t disagree.

Boone seared the steaks hard in cast iron and finished them in the oven. He added foil-wrapped potatoes, and by the time they were done, he’d managed not to mention Nash again.

We ate at a small table on the front porch. The valley was going dark in stages: the ridge first, then the timber, and then the grass. The food was good. Hollis had taken the deer down and shared the meat.

When he was finished, Boone set his fork down. “Four days.”

“I know how many.”

“You need to do your gear return a day early. That’s Nash’s system.”

We were both quiet.

“You’ve been counting the days,” I said.

“I know when your qualification ends.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

I would have bet the truck that he wanted to ask me to stay, but he wouldn’t do it.

I didn’t offer either. Four days out, and I was letting requal be my entire plan, like the card was still the mission, and October was something happening to other people.

“Marty said there’s a shorter form,” I said.

“He did.”

That was as close as either of us got. Boone stood and stacked the plates. “I’ve got more food in the fridge if you aren’t full. Nothing sweet for dessert, though.”

“I’m good.”

He carried the plates to the kitchen, and I sat on the porch in the last of the light. Somewhere beyond the grass, a poorwill called.

I helped Boone with the dishes, drying, and finding the right place to put them in the cupboards. Then there was nothing left to do with our hands.

It was nine-thirty. The base was less than fifteen minutes down the spur. My truck sat in front of the cabin, pointed at the road, and the end of the evening could be simple: boots on, thanks for dinner, see you at eight.

I looked at Boone. He was leaning against the counter with the towel still over his shoulder.