Chapter 23: The Run

The warehouse looked smaller than I remembered.

I stood in the gravel lot at nine on Saturday morning with my son on my hip and my coat zipped to my chin.

Forty bikes were lined up in front of me.

Every one of them was loaded with a bulging sack.

Coats, hats, and boxes of toys, strapped down with bungee cords, the same as every first Saturday of December.

Greet's truck idled behind me.

The prospect stood at my elbow in his plain jacket.

"You can still turn around," Joost had said in the dark that morning, riding beside the truck.

I had said no then, and I said it again now.

I walked toward the big sliding door.

The noise in the lot began to die.

A man on a Harley set down his coffee.

Another turned from his tailgate.

Then I heard the whisper go down the row, from bike to bike, from patch to patch, until it reached the door.

It's her.

Truus came out of the warehouse at a run, with her reading glasses bouncing on their cord.

She hit me so hard my son squawked.

"You came," she said into my neck. "You came, you came, honey, you came."

"I told you I would."

"You told me you'd stay gone."

She pulled back, crying, and wiped her face with her denim sleeve.

"I've never been so glad to be lied to."

My son twisted around on my hip and studied her with great suspicion.

"Who's that?" he said.

"That's Truus," I said. "She's my friend."

"She's loud."

"She is very loud."

Truus laughed and wept at the same time.

"Is this him?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"Oh, honey. He's got the jaw."

"So I've been told."

Behind her, the door of the warehouse stood open.

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