For hours I had been blaming myself.
I moved the box.
I put the heater too close.
I should have smelled the gasoline.
I should have checked.
I should have known.
Ray seemed to read every one of those thoughts.
He said quietly, “Don't make yourself guilty because hindsight is smarter than exhaustion.”
I looked at him.
“That sounds practiced.”
“It is.”
He did not have to explain.
Maddie.
Of course.
“How long did you blame yourself?”
Ray looked at the workbench.
“I’ll tell you when I stop.”
The honesty hurt more than a hopeful answer would have.
I nodded.
Then I asked, “Does her mother blame you?”
His face changed.
“Some days.”
“Do you blame her?”
“Some days.”
“That seems awful.”
“It is.”
Ray glanced toward the garage.
“But grief doesn't always make good people fair.”
He had learned that the hard way too.
Behind us, somebody laughed softly near the coffee machine.
A biker hissed at him to keep his voice down.
A woman from our camp snored inside a sleeping bag.
Life had already begun becoming ordinary around us.
Ray picked up the wrench again.
I reached for Maddie's jacket.
“I should give this back.”
“Leave it.”
“Ray.”
“You know my name now.”
I stared.
“You never told me.”
“The cop did.”
I realized he was right.
During everything at the clinic, an officer had called him Ray once.
I had heard it without registering.
“You know mine?”
Ray shook his head.
That made me smile.
“No.”
“What?”
“You saved my kid before asking my name.”
“That’s usually the order emergencies work.”
I told him.
He repeated it once so he would remember.
Then looked through the office window.
“And Ben.”
“Yes.”
“Ben.”
He nodded.
I held the jacket out again.
“Take it.”
Ray shook his head.
“He's sleeping.”
“He has blankets.”
“He likes that one.”
“He doesn’t know what it is.”
“Exactly.”
I looked at him.
Ray continued.
“He’s not carrying the history.”
“He's just warm.”
That sentence stayed with me.
I laid the jacket back across Ben.
He slept through it.
At four-thirty in the morning, the club’s improvised shelter finally became quiet.
Even the bikers slowed.
Someone switched off half the overhead lights.
Another man taped cardboard across the bottom of the front windows to block headlights.
I stretched out in a folding chair beside Ben's couch but did not sleep.
Every few minutes I checked his breathing.
Ray noticed the fourth time.
“He’s okay.”
“I know.”
I checked again.
Ray did not correct me.
At five-twelve, his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression immediately changed.
The braided-beard biker came over.
“Landlord?”
Ray nodded.
Apparently someone had posted a video online.
Not the entire video.
Only the first part.
Ray tearing Ben’s blanket away.
Me slapping him.
Ray carrying the blanket across the snow with a lighter in his hand.