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“Probably. Rhett’s truck is big.”

I added the details to the transfer sheet and ran down the rest of the list. Jake and Evan were on Pickle’s flight. Juno and her girlfriend were riding with Hog and Rhett, because Juno wanted footage of Lake Michigan for her podcast. Desrosiers was visiting his parents in Montreal and wouldn’t land at O’Hare until nine that night.

My group pickup had been a good plan on Monday when they were all on the same flight. Now I needed pickups at two airports and a parking space at the hotel.

“Pickle, I’m splitting the transfers. A car will meet you at Midway. A separate car gets Desrosiers at O’Hare. The drivers go straight to the hotel. Everyone’s credentials will be waiting at the hotel’s front desk, so nobody has to stand at will-call outside of the arena in January.”

“Oh, that’s good. Will-call in January is how people die.”

“At the game, there’s a room off the players’ corridor. You’ll have thirty minutes with Heath before warmups. Your guest passes cover that room and your seats. Someone from my staff will walk the committee down for the presentation.”

He stopped chewing.

“A room,” he said. “No cameras? Nobody with a microphone?”

“No cameras. Just you and him.”

Pickle’s voice was softer for a moment. “Good. That’s the part I wanted. The rest is extra.”

Then the crunching started again. “Hog has a question. He says it’s not important, which means it’s very important. Are the exchange people going to be there? The volunteers? He helped with one of the first equipment drives, back when it was a garage and a pickup truck and Denise yelling about sizes.”

“Two of them will be on the ice for the presentation. The rest have seats in your section.”

“Same section.” I heard him repeat it to someone. “He’s going to say that’s fine, and then he’s going to find every single one of them and shake their hand like he’s thanking each of them personally for inventing hockey.”

“There’s room for that.”

“There isn’t, but he’ll make room.”

Pickle was quiet. I listened long enough to wonder whether the call had dropped.

“Does Heath know how many of us are coming?”

“Yes. He was just in my office.”

“Then make sure he knows we came for him. We aren’t coming for the game, or Chicago, or the free tickets. He’s going to think we wanted free tickets. That’s his whole thing. He thinks he’s the excuse and not the reason.”

“I’ll make sure.”

“Thanks.” Then, faster, as if it had been waiting in line behind everything else: “Is the cat still okay with a visit? Heath said maybe. I don’t want to be a big thing in her house.”

“Trier agreed to a short visit on Saturday morning, during the shoot. Leah’s still finalizing the filming arrangements. It’ll be small, and Peaches decides how long it lasts.”

“That’s fair. That’s her house.”

***

The public library branch in Humboldt Park had a storytime room adjoining the children’s department. I arrived twenty minutes into a session.

Wet coats hung from a row of low hooks by the door. Somebody had spread newspaper along the wall and lined up small boots on it in pairs, salt stains drying white. The room was warm and smelled of wet wool.

Callahan sat in a kid-sized chair in front of a couple dozen kids. He had a picture book open across his knees. Children filled the carpet. Parents stood at the back or sat in chairs around the edges.

“The truck went up the hill and…” Callahan read. He turned the book outward. “Anybody see a problem?”

“No gas!” a boy near the front shouted.

“He forgot to get gas!”