Page 112 of Second Alarm

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"Stop saying okay. Go home. Drink your reverse coffee. Marry my sister in some far-off year when I've emotionally processed all of this."

"Goodnight, Cal."

"Goodnight, Brennan."

I walk to my truck. I don't get in right away. I stand on the sidewalk outside the Watershed in Copper Ridge, Montana, on a Monday night, under a street lamp with a moth cloud around it, and I call Hanna.

She picks up on the first ring.

"Hanna."

"Ty. How did it — "

"He gave me the blessing."

"What?"

"The axes blessing."

"Um — "

"He did the whole line."

"Oh my god, he did the whole line?"

"He did the whole line."

She’s quiet on the other line.

"Hanna."

"Yeah?"

"You knew he was going to do the axe line tonight."

"I approved the axe line, Ty."

I stand on the sidewalk. "I love you."

"I know."

"I'm coming home."

"I have coffee on."

"Your coffee or mine."

"Yours." She giggles.

"You don't know how I take it."

"Ty."

"Yeah?"

"I've been watching you make your coffee for ten years. I know exactly how you take it. I just don't want you to think it's automatic. I want you to watch me make it. I want you to correct it the first time. I want you to tell me how you like it. And then I'm going to make it that way for the rest of my life."

I stand on the sidewalk outside the Watershed. A moth hits the lamp. It bounces. It keeps flying.

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