For years, I had thought happiness needed to be dramatic to be real.
Reid taught me that the truest kind could be quiet.
I reversed out of the yard and turned toward North Quay.
The Halvorsen repair took twice as long as it should have.
Rainwater had seeped into a junction box beneath the aft deck, corroding two connections and repeatedly tripping the shore-power breaker. I replaced the box, rebuilt the damaged terminations, and tested the circuit while Mr. Halvorsen hovered behind me in yellow rubber boots.
He offered several theories.
All of them were wrong.
When the freezer finally rumbled back to life, he gripped my shoulder as if I had restored circulation to an elderly relative.
I called Reid from the van.
“North Quay is alive again.”
“Did you finish breakfast?”
“Good talk.”
“Noah.”
I closed my eyes. “Yes. I ate.”
A brief silence.
“Thank you.”
“I dislike how well that works.”
“You adore how well I work.”
“I’m undecided.”
“Bellweather called again.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Breaker Avenue.”
“You’ve become repetitive.”
“Drive as though I’m repetitive.”
The rain eased into a thin mist, but the wind remained vicious.
Broken branches covered the streets. Brown water rushed along the gutters, carrying leaves and bark toward drains that could no longer swallow it.
At a red light near the old cannery, I noticed a wrapped sandwich tucked into the center console.
A note was taped to the paper.
EAT BEFORE YOU BECOME EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.
I photographed it and sent it to Reid.
