Chapter 8: The Polite Man

"The door sticks," Hank said. "You have to lift it."

He lifted it, and it swung open on a small bright room above the boatyard office.

There was a bed with a blue quilt, a table by the window, and a kettle.

Through the glass I could see the creek, a row of boats up on stands, and gulls walking on a hull.

"It's clean," he said. "I changed the sheets. I don't know if they match anything."

"They're fine."

"The hot water takes a minute."

"Hank. It's fine."

He stopped, and looked at his boots, and laughed at himself.

"I'm talking too much."

"A little."

"Wren gave me a list."

"What was on it?"

"Don't let anyone in. Check the stove. Don't be weird."

"How are you doing on the weird?"

"Not great," he said. "Give me a week."

It was the last Saturday of April.

Wren had a shift, and Owen had already been to her door three times.

I had said yes to the flat for one month.

I held out a rent check, and Hank pushed it back across the counter.

"Then you can fix the sign out front," he said. "It says Rowley's Boatyrd."

"It does not."

"It's missing the A. It's been missing it for six years. Nobody tells me."

I laughed, and he looked up, surprised to hear it.

He carried my boxes up the outside stairs, two at a time.

I took the lightest one, a box of books.

He took it out of my hands at the top.

"You don't have to lift anything," he said.

"It's books."

"I've got it."

"I can carry my own books, Hank."

"I know you can." He looked at me for a second too long. "Let me."

He went back down for the next one.

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