Peter sat at his mother’s bedside and clasped her hand in both of his. “I know you wanted to direct this scene. But there’s some things I have to say, and if I don’t say them now, I don’t know when I will…”

When Peter woke he heard Robin whispering something to his aunt Lyndee. He tried to remember where he was and realized he was still sitting at his mother’s bedside, holding her hand. Something teased at him, something not quite right, and he realized a second later that despite the machine his mother was no longer breathing.

At first he squeezed his eyes shut and then his whole body went cold. He looked up at Robin, who reached out to caress his shoulder with a gentle hand, and the truth broke over him that his mother was gone.

Robin met his eyes. He looked crushed. “I’m so sorry Peter.”

Without thinking Peter rose to his feet and pushed into Robin’s arms, allowing the taller man to enfold him in a comforting embrace. He wrapped his arms around Robin’s neck, saying nothing. He soaked up Robin’s compassion and the warmth of his body, leaning into his solid presence and felt nothing at all.

“Petey,” Lyndee broke into the silence. “It’s going to be all right, hon.”

Peter broke from Robin’s embrace long enough to include Lyndee in it. She was crying openly and he didn’t know what to say to her either. He was numb. He looked at his aunt with eyes he knew were blank.

“What happens now?”

Lyndee pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “I’ll make a call and the funeral home will pick up her… Someone will come and take her.”

Peter tried to digest this information.

“I’ll wait here with her,” Robin told him. “You can go rest if you need to.”

Peter stepped closer to his mother. “I think…” He put his hand through some of her short silver hair so it would lie flat across the top of her head. “I’ll stay here.”

Lyndee looked at him with eyes that were older, he thought, than the ones with which she’d looked at him the night before. “I’ll be back when they come.”

“Why do you suppose it is” Peter asked Robin, “that I didn’t touch my mom for maybe twenty years, and now I can’t seem to stop?”

Robin took Peter’s hand in his and tugged him to the wall, where he sat on the floor and pulled Peter in to sit between his outstretched legs. “I don’t know.”

Peter pulled his knees up almost to his chin and wrapped his arms around them. He didn’t realize he was cold until Robin’s warmth surrounded him again. Robin’s head came down until his chin rested on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter pressed his face into Robin’s cheek.

“Okay?” Robin asked.

Peter nodded. “I’m supposed to feel something. Am I supposed to feel something?”

Robin shrugged.

Peter whispered. “What do you feel?”

“I feel…” Robin frowned. “I feel like I need a beer and I hate myself for it…”

Peter snorted.

It was probably a factor of the shock Peter was in that when Finley’s Funeral Home came to pick up his mother in the form of Lars Finley, Sr. and Lars Finley, Jr. with whom he’d gone to high school, he stayed in Robin’s arms and watched them. Lars Finley the younger was the biggest SOB he’d ever met. One of the boys who’d tormented him as a kid. Peter never knew if it was because Lars had been jealous of his athletic ability or because of he was half Asian or whether the little fucker was just plain crazy, but on more than one occasion they’d come to blows.

He had to hand it to the Finley’s though; they were professionals and treated his mother with the exacting care he knew she deserved. They placed a blanket over her inert form for the sake of propriety, carefully wrapping it around her so that she was never exposed, then slid something they called a clamshell, a two piece sort of stretcher, underneath her from both sides, fitting the pieces together like a puzzle. They covered her with a beautiful hand made quilt and buckled her in.

Robin rose and helped Peter to his feet and they followed her down the stairs and out into the yard.

Peter shook Lars the elder’s hand. “Thank you. You were very…”

Lars tilted his head as if he was studying something. “Of course,” he murmured. “We love your mother around here. She’ll be missed.”

“Thank you.”

Peter saw they were heading for an unfamiliar vehicle. “Dodge Caravan?

The old man shrugged. “Not as romantic as a hearse.”

Lars the younger was ready to leave. “Come on Dad!” he barked.

Peter frowned and watched as they carefully lifted the gurney into the back of the minivan and drove off. He didn’t think anything of it at all until he realized that he’d been holding Robin’s hand the entire time.

Buzzy’s wasn’t even starting to get busy by the time Peter finally made it there with Robin. The late afternoon sun slanted over the roof of the building as Peter parked the Road Runner. He still felt numb.

It dawned on him that nothing really held him to this town. His parents were gone; his aunt wasn’t going to hold it against him if he didn’t visit much, if ever. He could invite her to visit him, and she would, if she could find a way to leave her business.

Peter looked at Hadleyville with very different eyes. Robin had been his shadow for most of the day, silent and cool. He’d said very little. Peter hadn’t talked much either, for that matter. He’d welcomed the quiet strength of the man he knew felt as bad, or worse, than he did.

Robin had lost his best friend, and his home and his job. They’d each had a chance to rest, separately, having no good excuse to return to Peter’s bedroom together in the middle of the day.

When they entered the bar, the familiar dark space felt like a welcome relief. Peter ordered three fingers of bourbon and a beer, and Robin said he’d have the

same. They shot their bourbon at the bar and headed for a pool table. Robin fished in his pocket for change and set them up.

It took Peter a minute to realize that Robin was talking to him.

“I said you break, soldier man, and prepare to lose.”

Robin’s eyes said his heart wasn’t in it. Peter did as he was instructed anyway. Everything was going to seem strange to him for some time. Robin’s quiet, caring presence was reassuring. If Peter wanted to know what to do next, he only had to ask. He gave Robin a shy smile, feeling new at everything.

They played until it got dark and the regulars began to crowd the bar. He’d had several more beers over that time and two more shots. He was far from reeling drunk, but he was altered. He felt wrapped in a thick fog instead of the ice-cold shock he’d been drenched in since that morning.

A group of men and two women came into the bar. One of them was Lars Finley Jr. Peter looked up and smiled, remembering how he and his father had taken Shelley’s body and the caring way they’d allowed her some dignity in death.

Lars looked away and said something to one of the women that made her laugh. Peter turned back to the pool table and made his shot. But he scratched on the next because something in his blood hummed with adrenaline as the undercurrent of laughter in the corner of the bar where Lars stood turned mocking.

Robin frowned at him. “Concentrate, soldier man, or you’re going to owe me a month’s pay.”

Peter shook off his mood, and watched as Robin neatly cleared the table. As he went to rack them up again, Peter distinctly heard Lars’s voice behind him say, “Our turn to play boys, why don’t you just take that money to the jukebox and dance for a while.”

Peter looked behind him and saw another free table. “There’s a table over there.”

“But we like this one,” Lars taunted. “Don’t we.”

Others agreed, but only hesitantly. Peter’s gut didn’t read a mob, just one determined asshole.

“Okay,” Robin put down the cue ball. “You may take it with my compliments.” He made his way to the other table with his pool cue and waited for Peter to join him. Peter shot Lars a glance that should have told him he was getting off easy, but the man either missed the signs or chose to ignore them. When they’d put in their money and started racking up the second pool table, Lars and his girlfriend drifted over to the new one, looking for trouble.