Page 593 of End Game

Cami is leaning against Micah now, her head briefly settling against his shoulder while she looks over her notes. He doesn't move away, but I can see the exhaustion returning now that the game no longer requires his attention.

It doesn't look quite as heavy as it did two hours ago.

Griffin starts gathering plates. Dex attempts to argue that the last slice of pizza has become abandoned property under some imaginary statute. Cami steals it while he is making his case.

Micah remains at the table with his pencil moving over the edge of his notes.

When I look closer, he is drawing the chuul.

Except it has Dex's hair.

I decide there are questions I do not need answered.

I find him on the back porch about ten minutes later.

Micah has a cigarette between his fingers and one shoulder resting against the railing, the glow at the end brightening briefly when he takes a drag. He looks toward me when I step outside, but he doesn't ask why I'm there.

I retrieve one of the cigars I keep in the cabinet beside the back door and cut the end before joining him.

Micah looks at it. “I thought you were cutting back.”

“I am.”

“You're smoking.”

“Yes.”

“That is generally considered incompatible with cutting back.”

“It would be if I were smoking the same number I used to.”

He considers this for a moment, then nods. “Fair.”

We smoke without talking.

The air is cold enough that every exhale becomes a mixture of breath and smoke before disappearing over the yard. The neighborhood is quiet, which I appreciate more than I usually do. There are no questions coming through the back door, no phones buzzing, no one trying to determine whether Micah is doing better than he was yesterday.

I could ask.

I have asked variations of the same question enough times this week that the answer would probably tell me very little.

He is grieving.

That is not an information gap I can solve.

After several minutes, Micah moves closer.

The shift is small enough that someone else might interpret it as an adjustment against the cold. I don't.

He stops beside me, our shoulders nearly touching.

I lift my arm slowly enough that the movement enters his line of sight before I touch him.

He looks at me once.

Then he leans in.

His shoulder settles against my chest first, followed by the side of his head near my collarbone. I let my arm come around him and rest my hand against his upper arm, keeping the pressure predictable.