Page 26 of The Fire Line

“Good party,” Jay said.

“Yup.”

“Your mother is terrifying.”

“Yup.”

“You got another word in there somewhere?”

Harris aligned two chairs with the others. “Ma likes you.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Said you dance pretty good.”

The pleasure arrived before Jay could prevent it. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Don’t get too excited.”

“I’ll try to remain humble.”

Harris bent for another pair of chairs. “Be a first.”

Jay barked out a laugh. “Wow, Shaw.”

Harris straightened, already looking elsewhere as though he had not just made an actual joke. Tiny, dry, delivered in the same flat voice he used for weather and livestock instructions, as though humor had escaped without authorization.

Jay liked Harris’s little jokes far too much. Worse, he liked that Harris appeared to be giving him more of them—not enough for anyone else to notice, just an occasional line slipped into ordinary conversation as though Harris had briefly forgotten he was supposed to find Jay irritating.

Jay was beginning to collect them, which was unwise at best.

“For the record, your mother is an excellent dancer,” he said. “She nearly killed me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first.”

“I’m going to need considerably more information than that.”

One corner of Harris’s mouth shifted. For one hopeful second, Jay thought he might actually get into it.

“Harrison!” Elise called from across the barn. “Do you know where the extra trash bags are?”

Harris glanced toward her. “Shop. I’ll get ’em.”

Waste management had impeccable timing and no respect for narrative momentum. Harris set down the chairs and started across the barn. After several steps, he looked back.

“Night, Navarro.”

“Night.”

Harris disappeared through the doors toward the shop.

A few jokes. A conversation interrupted. Harris saying good night like a normal person.

Jay reached for another bottle.

This had progressed beyond irritating.

It was time to call Romy.