I wait for Joe to buzz me up, but he surprises me by coming downstairs. He ignores me at first, instead crossing the street to say hi to Nora. My breath catches when he jogs across the asphalt. For a second, I trust the universe so little that I expect him to get hit by a car too. But Joe looks safe as he perches his elbows against the window of Nora’s passenger seat. Exhausted, and not as muscular as he was a month ago, but still safe.

After a quick chat with my friend, he appears by my side. “You got a curfew, kiddo?”

“I’m only a year younger than you,” I protest.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Damn him.

“Eleven. Nora is coming to pick me up. She is the overbearing mother I’ve never had.”

Joe chuckles and opens the door for me. Instead of taking the elevator up to his apartment, we take it down to the garage. Even though we don’t talk about it, I know the small, confined place reminds both of us of Dom.

Joe says, “Good thing you’re all bundled up.”

And I blink at him, still dazed. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

It’s weird to get into Joe’s truck without Dom sitting there, with his Red Sox commentary and friendly jokes. We drive out of Salem, going past little New England towns I don’t know and a whole lot of darkness. There are no stars in the sky.

“Are you an axe murderer?” I ask, just to fill out the silence.

“Yes,” Joe says deadpan, eyes hard on the road.

I chuckle and yawn at the same time.

“No, really. Check the back seat,” he tells me.

I turn my head around, and sure enough, there’s an actual axe lying on his back seat. It looks old, the wooden handle splattered with white paint. I look back at Joe, my heart picking up speed. “Please tell me you’re shitting me.”

He chuckles. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Are we murdering someone?”

Now he is full-blown laughing, and I realize I’ve missed his voice terribly. The sound of it rolls in my chest. “Not at present.”

“Then what—”

“Just trust me, will you?”

I decide that I should. That I am. Joe’s never done me wrong. Even after all the crap I’ve put him through, he’s always been amazing to me, even when he’s done it in his own surly way.

Finally, we reach our destination. A junkyard outside Manchester-by-the-Sea. Joe parks, gets out of the car, and takes out the axe. I follow him silently. He stops by the fence to the junkyard, throwing me an expectant look.

“Give you a leg up?” He hoists the axe over his muscular shoulder.

“Are we breaking into a junkyard?” I ask the question extra slowly, so he can fully appreciate how crazy this sounds.