Chapter 12: The Helipad

Celia walked out to her white sedan and drove away without looking back.

Nobody in the hangar spoke.

The check sat in the syrup with the ink running at the edges.

I put down my fork.

"Bruce," I said. "Outside."

He followed me out the side door and across the wet apron to the helipad.

The sun was coming up red over the hills, and the burned slopes looked raw in the light.

I stopped at the painted H and turned around.

He stopped three feet from me, with his hands at his sides.

"Did you leave the tea?" I asked.

He took a breath.

"Yes."

"Every morning."

"Every morning for eleven days. The nurse knew me by day three. I made her swear she wouldn't say my name."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't go in."

"Why couldn't you go in, Bruce?"

He looked at the ground.

A hundred feet away, the wind turned the windsock around its pole.

I had made a rule in this hangar two nights ago.

I had made it so I could keep my grief in one piece, and not have anyone's hand in it.

It had worked.

It had worked for exactly as long as I could stand it.

"I'm breaking my own rule," I said. "I'm sorry. I'm asking you. What happened that night?"

His shoulders dropped.

For one second I thought he would lie, and I knew in the same second that he would not.

"You said no questions," he said quietly. "You said it twice."

"I know what I said."

"I thought I could hold out until the launch. I thought I could fix it first and then tell you."

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