“It’s because I’m a former bartender that I can see the urgent necessity of this,” she said. Luckily she didn’t touch any of the Negra Modelo in the fridge. She didn’t often drink beer, but she loved the flavor of Negra Modelo. And, for whatever reason, the way it made her burp also made her laugh. I like it when she laughs.

Watching her dump the remaining half of a fifth of WhistlePig rye down the drain was painful, but I finally, in my confession, was addressing the things that were and had been tying my guts into a million strangling knots.

“People get hurt around me,” I said. “That’s the way it was in Afghanistan. The way it was at the DPD. And now . . .”

“People are saved because of you, August,” Tatina said. She’d stopped pouring my booze down the drain. What a party that would be for the sewer rats of Detroit. “And don’t think for a minute I don’t know who you are, what you have done and can do. You’re not that good of a liar, and I’m not that naïve. Neither of us has any rightful claim to innocence.”

“I—I just don’t want to risk you getting hurt,” I said.

“And when did you get it into your head that you were my appointed protector?” she said. “Min Gud! I could swear you were more evolved than that!”

“Save for a little hair on my knuckles, I am. But—”

“But nothing, August!” Tatina laughed. “I’m a grown woman! I’m half-German and half-Somali—which half do you think is the feckless maiden in limp-wristed distress?”

“Tatina, listen—”

“My father—a thoracic surgeon in Berlin—volunteered to treat men, women and children caught in the cross fire of a never-ending Somali civil war. My mother shielded, fed, fought and buried brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, while dodging bullets, machetes and gang rape. And I can break down, clean and oil, then reassemble your Glock 17 blindfolded. So again, Mr. August Octavio Snow—tell me why I need you to be my valiant knight in shining armor?”

I thought about saying something snarky to break the tension.

Then I thought again.