Page 30 of The Callahan Effect

Wait until you see the view.

Beyond the glass, the Spokane River flowed steadily beneath the afternoon sunshine, the water sparkling like scattered crystal whenever it caught the light. Several pleasure boats drifted lazily along the broader stretch downstream, their passengers enjoying the warmth of the late summer day, while closer to shore a family of ducks glided effortlessly across the calmer water, leaving ripples spreading behind them. Cottonwood trees shaded the opposite bank, their leaves stirring softly in the breeze, and now and then the distant laughter of children carried across from the riverside walking paths where families and cyclists enjoyed the day.

For several seconds neither of us felt any need to speak.

The river invited silence. Not the uncomfortable kind I'd spent years watching people struggle through after discovering I couldn't talk, but the peaceful sort that invited people to appreciate where they were.

A waitress appeared beside our table with menus and glasses of iced water before giving us a few minutes to decide.

Mason studied the menu with obvious interest.

"I don't think I've ever seen this many pasta choices."

My thumbs moved across the screen.

Everything's good, but the house-made fettuccine is worth coming back for.

He laughed softly.

"So you've got a favorite."

I gave him a thumbs up.

When the waitress returned, Mason looked toward me before ordering.

"I'll trust the local. I'll have the house-made fettuccine with grilled chicken."

Her attention shifted to me.

I pointed to the menu, then turned my screen toward him.

Same as always. Seafood linguine. Extra shrimps.

He chuckled.

"Now I know why you wanted to come here."

The waitress disappeared toward the kitchen with our order, leaving the murmur of conversation and the rush of the river beyond the windows to fill the comfortable silence between us. I had long since learned not to feel awkward when conversations paused. Silence had been part of my world since I was six years old, and along the way I'd discovered that the people worth knowing never felt compelled to fill every empty moment with words.

Mason seemed content watching the river.

A sleek white cruiser eased past the restaurant, its wake rocking several smaller pleasure boats tied to the marina downstream. Near the opposite bank, a pair of kayakers paddled steadily against the current, weaving around a cluster of ducks shepherding half a dozen fluffy ducklings toward the reeds. Sunlight danced across the moving water, throwing shimmering reflections onto the underside of the bridge a little further upstream, and I found myself watching Mason watching the river rather than the scenery itself.

There was an openness about him I hadn't expected.

Most people arriving at Evergreen carried themselves cautiously during their first few days, measuring every word as they tried to work out where they belonged within an already established team. Mason seemed different. He observed everything around him with genuine interest rather than uncertainty, taking it all in without pretending to know more than he did.

Eventually his attention shifted back toward me.

"So...tell me something about yourself."

His hand reached toward the pocket where his phone rested before he caught himself halfway through the movement. A sheepish grin spread across his face.

"I was about to text you."

I laughed silently, shaking my head before quickly typing a reply.

I'm mute, not deaf.