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My phone buzzed.

Kelsey: Next time you send a funny story about Mark, I’d also like a photograph in which he’s larger than Peaches.

I read it aloud. Mark glanced at me. “How small am I in your photos?”

“In most of the pictures she’s seen, you’re behind the camera. Or holding a light stand on the other side of the room.”

“I’ve never held a light stand.”

“You’ve stood near one. You look like you’re five inches tall.”

Anna met us at the door with her coat already on and performed the handover in under a minute. Peaches stepped out of the window bed, stretched both front legs, and slowly inspected my suitcase. When I crouched, she pushed her cheek hard against my knuckles and sat on my foot.

Mark hung his coat by the door and walked into the kitchen. I heard the cupboard and the tap.

I took out my phone and aimed my camera.

“What’s that for?”

“Kelsey. She asked for proof that you extend below the shoulders.”

He laughed as I took the picture. He was in focus and larger than Peaches. I sent it to Kelsey.

“Does it meet the requirements?” Mark asked.

I looked at it once more, then put the phone on the counter and reached out for a hug. I’d missed him.

I kissed him against the counter, with my hand at the back of his neck, while Peaches watched from the suitcase. Behind him, the phone buzzed on the counter.

When I finally looked, Kelsey had answered.

Kelsey: Better. Adding it to the file.

Chapter fourteen

Mark

Ihad two documents open side by side on my office computer: a ceremony script I’d written for Heath, and a form filled out by Noah “Pickle” Piatkowski of Thunder Bay, Ontario.

The form had six fields. Pickle had filled in all six and kept going into the margins. Under accessibility requirements, he’d written: Hog needs an aisle seat. He’s a big guy, and he hates asking people to move. He’ll sit with his knees in his chest for three periods before he makes a stranger stand up for him. Under arrival information, he’d written: Friday, assuming aviation continues to function.

There was no flight number.

The Thunder Bay–Chicago Youth Hockey Exchange had selected Heath for its Community Partner Award. Since his call-up, he’d helped cover travel for families who couldn’t manage it, arranged equipment donations, and kept turning up at exchange weekends whenever the schedule let him. The award came from the volunteers who’d worked beside him for several seasons. Our part was to provide four minutes on the ice before a home game, while hosting a group of his old Thunder Bay Storm teammates in the stands.

Heath knocked on my doorframe at ten. He had a coffee in one hand.

“Leah said the script’s ready.”

“It’s ready for you to read and approve.” I turned the screen toward the visitor’s chair. “Sit.”

He sat. He’d brought the smell of the players’ lounge with him, burnt coffee and hockey tape. He read the screen with his elbows on his knees. I watched him get to the second paragraph and slow down.

“Can we cut this?”

“Which part?”

“Most all of it.”