Page 34 of Gave Proof Through the Night

Sullivan studies me for a long beat and grins, probably judging me. Then he claps me on the back, hard, once, right there on the sidewalk outside the post office doors. He’s already backing away toward wherever he’s actually supposed to be, grinning ear to ear, "Go get your quills… Zesty."

“How did you…?” Then I call out as he struts away, “That nickname won’t stick.”

“Already has,” he says without looking back.

He’s simultaneously right and extremely annoying about it. Great. Now the East team got wind of my new nickname.

Inside the post office, the line is short and the air conditioning is blessedly aggressive. I get the Declaration sheet, plus a few from the Figures of the American Revolution pane, because there’s a Benjamin Franklin stamp that looks like he’s mid-eye-roll and I genuinely cannot not get it, and I’m licking the last stamp when Sticky Fingers steps up to the self-serve counter beside mine, apparently finishing up business of her own at the exact same moment.

“Small world,” I say.

“Smaller than you’d think.” She doesn’t even look up, sliding her envelope into the slot. “Or are you stalking me?”

“I’m not stalking you.” It comes out faster than I mean it to, and more defensive. “I had postcards to mail. I didn’t even know you’d be in here.”

“Relax.” She’s grinning now, fully, watching me flounder with real appreciation. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh.” Right. Obviously. “I knew that.”

“You did not. You went full courtroom on me for a second there.” She’s delighted about it.

I decide not to dignify that with a defense, mostly because I don’t have one.

We walk out at the same time, headed, as it turns out, in the exact same direction, and there’s a solid five seconds where neither of us says anything, just matching pace down the sidewalk like two people assigned to the same group project who haven’t figured out who’s supposed to talk first.

“So this is going to be awkward,” she says finally.

“A little.”

“I should warn you, I’m genuinely terrible at small talk. Weather. Traffic. How about that heat, huh. I’ve got nothing.”

“I detest small talk. On principle.”

“Good. We’re aligned.” She says it like we just closed a business deal, and something about the flat, official delivery makes me laugh before I mean to.

A guy jogs past us in a full Uncle Sam costume, sweating clean through the beard, handing out flyers for something.

“That’s either performance art,” she says, watching him go. "Or he lost a bet."

“I’m going with the bet.”

“Same. Nobody wakes up and chooses that costume voluntarily. Not in July. Not for free.”

“For money, though?”

“For enough money, sure. Everyone’s got a number.” She says it with total conviction, like she’s given this more thought than the average person should. “What’s yours?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has one. You just haven’t found it yet.” She glances sideways, assessing me like she’s actually running calculations. “You seem like a guy who’d cave for something dumb. A really good sandwich, maybe.”

“I would not cave for a sandwich.”

“You absolutely would. Somebody hands you a truly excellent sandwich, says ‘do a cartwheel,’ and you're already halfway into it before your brain catches up.”

“I… well I suppose it depends on the sandwich.”

She just grins and keeps walking, already onto the next thing. A guy power-walking past in a full suit, sweat-soaked, phone clenched. She has opinions about his tie. I have opinions about the fact that she has opinions about a stranger’s tie. Neither of us runs out of things to say, and somewhere in there, this stops feeling like two strangers making conversation and starts just feeling like we’ve known each other for years.