Chapter 10: Receipt

I drove back across the Wabasha Bridge with both hands tight on the wheel.

Somebody paid Cody to be late.

I tried to turn the sentence into something else.

A joke.

A mistake.

A father's rumor passed on by a driver.

It stayed exactly what it was.

I did not tell Emmett that night.

I told myself I wanted facts first, and he had a tank to clean in the morning.

That was true.

It was also true that I was afraid of what the facts would be.

On Monday I helped him on the brew floor.

He had asked, that morning, a little shyly.

"There's a batch I'd like you to see," he said. "It's the first one that was entirely mine."

I wore borrowed rubber boots and a hairnet.

The floor was a cathedral of steel tanks and copper pipes, loud with pumps and warm as a kitchen.

Emmett climbed a short ladder, popped a hatch and held out a glass.

"Smell," he said.

I leaned in.

It smelled like toast and honey and something green.

"It's good," I said.

"It's a Märzen. Amber lager. Grandpa Otto's recipe, with my change."

"What's the change?"

"A little rye."

"Heresy."

"A modest one."

I tasted the beer, and it was bright, clean and a little smoky.

"This is wonderful," I said, and he looked at me like I'd given him a medal.

We spent two hours, him pointing out valves and gauges and me asking silly questions.

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