Episode 4 · The Way Home

The nurse made Soles walk to the end of the corridor before she would believe he could manage the steps at home.

He went slowly, one hand close to the wall. By the time he returned, she had put his clothes on the bed.

— No lifting, no work, no proving a point. Follow the instructions. If your breathing gets worse, you come back.

— Does walking to the gate count as work?

— Depends what you’ve put on the other side of it.

Varren took the bag before Soles could reach for it.

They left on a Thursday, almost three weeks after the shooting. The funeral had taken place while he was still in the hospital. Maxim had brought him the order of service, then sat quietly while Soles bent the paper in his hands.

He kept it folded in his jacket pocket now. It was already soft along the crease.

Varren drove him home without filling the journey. Near the port, Soles saw men coming off a shift and searched their faces before he could stop himself.

At the house, a new lock shone on the gate.

Maxim was waiting inside it. He opened the passenger door, moved aside when Soles swung his legs out, and let him stand on his own.

Lucky hit the end of his leash with a sound of pure outrage. Mina stood beside Maxim’s knee, tail moving slowly, studying Soles as he crossed the sidewalk.

— Give him a minute, Maxim told Lucky.

They let the dogs approach one at a time. Soles kept a hand on the gate while Lucky pressed against his legs. Mina sniffed his shoes, his pants, then the edge of the dressing beneath his shirt. She leaned her shoulder against his shin.

He had prepared himself for the path.

It was clean.

The drawing tube lay on a shelf inside the kitchen, returned by the police. His father had never seen the drawing. Soles put his hand on the shelf and stood there until Maxim asked whether he wanted to sit down.

— In a minute.

The house smelled of laundry detergent and dog food. A coat still hung behind the door. His mother’s shopping list was held to the refrigerator by a magnet shaped like a fish.

He read the first item, then turned away.

Maxim brought a chair into the yard. Varren put water beside it, and Soles sat where he could see the gate without looking directly at the place he had fallen.

The neighbor who had found him came to the fence. He recognized her voice before her face. When he thanked her, she pressed her lips together and asked whether he needed groceries picked up. He said Maxim had done it. She stayed a moment, then went home. Soles watched her cross the road, trying to reconcile those ordinary hands with the pressure that had held him against the path.

— We should have bought that chair for the pool, Maxim said, testing the arms. Would’ve saved us building the bench.

Varren stood beside the table with the empty bag in his hands.

— The bench works.

— The bench works because he argued with you.

— I listened.

— Eventually, Soles said.

Varren looked pleased to have been included in the complaint.

Soles remembered the afternoon at his house after the installation. Maxim had come to collect a tool and stayed when Varren produced food. They had eaten beside the pool while the new pump hummed behind the lift-up seat.

Varren had asked whether there was anything else he should know about maintaining it. Maxim told him that inviting men from the workshop to lunch usually resulted in a longer bill. Soles said the bill was already paid, and Maxim had regarded him with professional disappointment.

Later, Varren burned the first batch of meat and tried to serve it with the dark side underneath.

Maxim turned his piece over.

— Same principle as the plumbing, he’d said. Hide it and hope nobody lifts the cover.

Soles had laughed so hard that he spilled his drink. Varren gave him a towel, sat down with the ruined food and ate it himself.

The memory ended with sunlight moving across the water. It hurt to have been happy somewhere so recently.

— We weren’t even friends when you invited us, Soles said.

— I thought I’d try buying lunch first. It seemed less demanding than asking directly.

— Should’ve cooked it first, Maxim said.

Soles laughed once. The pull in his chest made him stop, but he was glad they had made him do it.

Varren took the spare gate key from his pocket and put it on the table.

— Your cousin’s practically moved in. Call me if you need anything he hasn’t already brought.

Soles kept his eyes on the key.

— The police asked about people who came here.

— I expected they would.

— I told them about the work. About you knowing Mom and Dad.

Varren nodded. He gave Soles the name of the officer he had spoken to and waited while he entered it in his phone.

When he left, Maxim went inside to make something to eat. Soles remained in the chair. At the fence, his father had tied a branch back with a strip of old shirt. The knot had loosened. Kale would have noticed it before supper.

Soles looked through the gate toward the street.

— Did anyone see him leaving? he asked when Maxim returned.

— A neighbor saw a man on foot. Couldn’t give more than that.

— At the port?

— Nothing useful yet. But I know drivers who might. I’ll ask around when I’m collecting tomorrow.

— In that truck?

— It’s a discreet vehicle.

— You can hear it from the next street.

— Exactly. Nobody thinks a criminal mastermind would drive it.

Soles shook his head. They had been making excuses for each other’s bad ideas since they were boys. His cousin would stand beside him through the worst of them. That was a comfort, and something he would have to be careful with.

Soles took out the investigator’s card, then his phone. For the first time since coming home, he had a call to make that concerned something he might still change.

That night he stood beneath the tree again.

The small plant near its roots was brighter. He read the name on the stone once more.

Leonatus.

No one stood beside it. Soles touched a narrow leaf, and it held against his fingertips.