Page 17 of When Love Takes Root

“That’s because I trust your gift,” Juice replied, lifting the biscuit like a toast.

“You trust my gift because you’re lazy,” I said, sweeping my flashlight across the wiring above Miss Claudette’s kitchen.

The June heat had already bullied its way into Self Ridge, and Miss Claudette’s attic had no mercy in it. Sweat slid down my temple, insulation scratched my forearms, and dust clung to my work shirt while I eased further across the beam. Beneath me, the hallway smelled like sausage, coffee, and lemon cleaner, which meant Miss Claudette had been up before the sun, preparing to feed grown men who were supposed to be working.

“You know Miss Claudette made breakfast,” Juice said.

“Focus

“I am focused

“No, you’re focused on grits,” I said, angling the flashlight deeper into the insulation.

“Grits matter,” Juice said.

“They do, just not while I’m up here trying not to fall through somebody’s ceiling

“See, that’s your problem. You’re always dramatic,” Juice said, laughing hard enough for the sound to jump off the hallway walls.

“Justice,” I called.

“Uh-oh. Government name,” Juice said.

“Hand me the screwdriver

Juice finally set the biscuit down. “Yes, sir. See? I help.”

I reached through the opening, took the screwdriver from him, and turned back toward the wiring. Nobody had called Justice by his government name since childhood. After one greedy incident involving fruit punch, he’d been Juice ever since.

“Stop smiling up there. I know you thinking about my nickname,” Juice said.

“You did it to yourself,” I reminded.

“I was a child,” Juice reasoned.

“You were greedy.”

“I was thirsty.”

“You were both.”

He acted a fool; I acted bothered. Somehow, we’d carried each other through more than most men survived.

Juice remembered me before life got expensive. Before county glass. Before betrayal. He’d been there through every version of me

The flashlight caught the junction box, and the smile left my face.

The neutral sat wrong.

Heat had darkened the insulation around the splice, and the copper had been twisted with more confidence than skill. Somebody had opened this wall, made a lazy connection, closed everything back up, and walked away. Now Miss Claudette’s kitchen lights had been flickering for weeks, and another man had charged her money to tell her it was the bulbs.

It wasn’t the bulbs.

“Found it,” I called down.

“How bad is it?” Juice asked.

“Bad enough,” I said.