Page 106 of Full Contact

“You were eating when he explained it.”

“Well, that helped. He gave me examples.”

Pickle picked his coffee back up and turned to Mark. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“At home. Do you call him Trier?”

Mark smiled. “Yes.”

“Even at home? Not something else?”

“There are other options,” Varga said. “None of us has been brave enough.”

Pickle looked at Mark. “You know his first name, right? It’s your job to know.”

“I’ve known it for eleven years,” Mark said. “I’ve never used it.”

“Why not?”

“He never asked me to.”

I’d had my objection ready before Pickle finished the question. I didn’t need it. Mark was reaching for his coffee as if he’d said nothing at all.

“Hog,” Adrian asked. “Can you still feel your hand?”

“Not really,” Hog said, and kept scratching.

At twenty to twelve, Mark stood, went to the closet, and began taking coats off the hooks. Pickle got up at once. “Right. We said quarter to.”

“You can finish your coffee,” Mark said.

“I finished it twenty minutes ago. I’ve been holding the cup for appearances.”

Adrian picked up his bag and stood beside me while Pickle wrestled with a sleeve. He glanced toward the dining chair, where Peaches was still pressed against Hog’s hand.

“Has anyone asked about something longer?” he said. “With her. Not episodes. A real piece.”

“Her agent advises against it.”

He smiled a little. “For now?”

“For now.”

He nodded as if that were a reasonable answer, and put on his coat.

Hog stayed in his chair until Peaches stepped away and walked to her window bed. Then he rose slowly, held his hand against his chest for a second, and reached for the coat Mark was holding out.

“Thank you,” he said to me. “For letting us in her house.”

“She chose you,” I said. “I just own the furniture.”

Pickle had his coat half on. He stopped, dug into the pocket that had rattled earlier, and pulled out something small that he held out on his palm.

It was a cat made of pipe cleaners. It was orange, with a fat curled tail, two pointed ears, and a body twisted into a sit. A folded Post-it was stuck to its base.

“For you,” he said to me. “For having us.”