Page 58 of Keep

Something pinged. The man was too still, too purposeful in his stillness.

“What?” Chad asked.

“Nothing.” Hank shook his head and kept walking. “Thought I saw someone.”

Outside, the October air hit them—cool, clean, the light going amber. Hank glanced back through the glass doors. The man in the dark jacket was gone.

Paranoia. DC is full of men in dark jackets.

He let it go. Or tried to.

Thursday morning, Hank walked his usual route to work. The trees along the Mall were just starting to turn—the faintest blush of yellow at the edges, fall making its case. He passed the CVS on C Street and saw Clyde in his usual spot.

Except Clyde looked different.

It took Hank a moment to identify what had changed. The army-surplus jacket was the same. The cardboard sign was still propped against the wall. But Clyde’s face was cleaner. Shaved, or close to it. His eyes were sharper, more present.

“Morning, Clyde.”

“Senator.” The gap-toothed smile. “How are you, sir?”

“Can’t complain. You look well.”

“Been trying. Got into the VA clinic for a checkup. First one in a while.” Clyde rubbed his jaw, self-conscious. “Cleaned up a little.”

“It shows.” Hank pulled out his wallet and handed Clyde a business card along with his usual ten-dollar bill. “I’ve been talking to a colleague—Roy Bathum from Ohio. He’s running a jobs program. Park Service, mostly. Custodial, landscaping, maintenance work. Legitimate positions.”

Clyde eyed the business card, his expression cautious. “Yeah?”

“It’s real. Still getting set up—placements start in November, maybe sooner. I’ll keep you posted.”

“I appreciate that, Senator. I really do.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Hank walked on. A block later, he saw a figure standing by a mailbox. Dark jacket. Phone in hand. Not moving with the morning foot traffic.

He almost stopped. Almost turned for a better look.

Same jacket? Different person? You’re a senator, not a spy. Keep walking.

He kept walking. But the prickle between his shoulder blades stayed with him all the way to Hart.

That night, Chad came over after his shift. Just past two a.m. It was an hour that had become theirs, carved out of the gap between Chad’s closing duties and Hank’s early morning. Hank kept the door unlocked on nights he knew Chad was coming, which was a security habit his staff would have found alarming, and he didn’t care.

Chad came in smelling like the bar—beer, sweat, and his usual citrus underneath. He dropped his bag by the door and stood in the hallway, looking tired in a way that made Hank want to feed him.

“Rough night?”

“Bachelor party. They kept requesting Pink Pony Club and tipping in singles.” Chad leaned against the wall. “I’m too tired to take my shoes off.”

“I’ll make you something.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“Sit down.”

Chad sat. Hank made eggs—scrambled, low and slow, with cream and butter, as usual—and toast, and set them on the coffee table with a glass of water. Chad ate like a man who’d forgotten to feed himself, which Hank was learning, was most nights.