"I'd like that."
"Good." She goes up the steps. Martin follows. At the door he turns and gives me a nod. Just a nod. Martin.
Zoe stays on the sidewalk with me. Her parents go inside and the screen door closes and we're standing in the dark in front of the house where she grew up, eight blocks from the station, and she's looking at me with that full-volume face.
Zoe steps closer and I put my arms around her. "Dad quoted Chrissie Hynde at you."
"He did."
She sighs happily. "He doesn't quote music at people he doesn't like."
"I figured."
"And Mom invited you to dinner. On her own. Without me asking." She sounds especially proud of that.
"I noticed."
She leans up and kisses me. Quick, warm, tasting like lime and pulled pork. Then she pulls back and grins and walks backward up the porch steps, not looking away from me, andI watch her go and I don't leave until the screen door closes behind her and the porch light dims to the nighttime setting, which is part of the strategic lighting crime prevention program and which, tonight, I find completely reasonable.
I walk home. Six blocks to Anthem, six more to my apartment. The jacket is warm and the patches face out and the lot is dark behind me and Martin Kimball quoted Chrissie Hynde to me and Patricia Kimball invited me to pot roast and I said yes and I meant it.
The apartment is quiet. Machines below, streetlight through the window. Zoe's sneakers are not by the door tonight because she's at home in her bed with the stars on the ceiling. But the toothbrush is in the cup and the hoodie is on the chair and the charger is plugged in and every piece of evidence is waiting.
I take off the jacket. Hang it on the hook. The patches settle against the door, old and fraying and real.
I put on the Pretenders. "Back on the Chain Gang." Chrissie Hynde sings and I stand in my kitchen and drink water and think about Martin Kimball in his Gil Scott-Heron shirt mouthing words he heard for the first time, and Patricia Kimball eating nachos off a baking sheet in her gold earrings, and their daughter who brought them to a lot because she wanted them to see me where I'm real.
They saw me. They came and they stayed and they saw me.
I finish the water. Brush my teeth. One toothbrush in the cup tonight, black, alone. That's fine. Tomorrow the purple one will be here. Tomorrow or the day after. Whenever she comes back, which is always.
I go to bed. Right side. Left side empty. The machines hum. Chrissie Hynde plays in the other room because I left the record on and I'm not getting up to fix it.
I don't need to fix it. It sounds good from here.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Zoe
Keely finds the rally.
She sends it to the group chat on Wednesday morning: a flyer, screenshotted from Instagram, bright yellow with black text. IMMIGRANT RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS. Saturday. City Hall steps. 11 AM. Speakers, music, community organizations with tables. A march to the federal building at noon.
This is the Wednesday after Cap called me into her office and said, "Kimball. Your probationary period ends Friday. Hayes recommends you for full assignment. I concur. Effective Monday, you're on the roster." She said it the same way she says everything, level, factual, and I stood there and said "Thank you, Captain" and walked out and made it to the locker room before I cried.
I'm a firefighter. Not probationary. Not conditional. Full roster, Station 11.
Keely's message:we're going. no debate. i already told my supervisor i need saturday off and she said fine because she's afraid of me.
Mia:in. jake can come right?
Keely:jake can come if jake can keep up.
Jordan:already got my sign from last time.
Raquelle:i'll bring sunscreen. last rally i got burned so bad my aunt thought i had a rash.
I read the thread while I'm eating cereal at my parents' kitchen table. Dad is on the porch with the paper. Mom is somewhere upstairs doing something that involves a sewing machine and occasional profanity.
