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“Our home,” he said.

Boone opened the door.

“Work.”

He left.

Cash sighed. “He gets tender when he’s jealous.”

Boone’s hand came back through the open doorway, caught the back of Cash’s shirt, and pulled him out.

The door shut behind them.

Josie and I stood in the kitchen.

For one second, neither of us spoke.

Then we both started laughing.

Not because anything was especially funny. Because the room belonged to us now. Because two Calloway men had left under their own power and taken no instructions with them. Because there were pens waiting in the morning light, and we had nowhere else to be.

Josie held up Butterbean.

“He wants to see.”

“Obviously.”

We went into the small room.

The sun had reached the low table. It fell over the pine surface and lit every scrape Cash had sanded but not entirely removed. The floor cushions were round and overstuffed. Mine was green. Josie chose the blue one, then ignored it and sat directly on the floor with her legs folded under her.

I did the same.

Butterbean took the green cushion.

“He outranks us?” I asked.

“He’s management.”

“That explains the expression.”

“He’s very disappointed in our quarterly numbers.”

I looked at the stuffed calf. “He should have read the market forecast.”

Josie’s smile appeared slowly, then stayed.

She unzipped the first pen case.

The colors ran in tidy rows. Not perfectly tidy. Three had been returned to the wrong loops, and one purple pen occupied a space labeled GRAY in faded marker.

I saw it.

My fingers twitched.

Then I did nothing.

This was not my pen case.