Brian sets his coffee on the counter and takes the towel from my hand to give it a closer look. Then he stares at me.

“Please don’t make me ask for it by name,” I say.

“You want to use my Turbo Washer 6000, don’t you?”

My eyes widen and I nod. Now he gets it.

“You have no idea how valuable I feel right now. I’ll be right back.”

Brian moves out of frame and a few moments later I hear his laundry machine filling with water. A wave of anxiety hits me like the rush coming from the faucet. Did I really just bring dirty laundry to Brian’s house and call it an emergency? When I walked through his door, he probably thought the urn cracked, or Hancock Insurance was a fraud, or anything other than the fact that one of my Decker-era relics had a nasty stain my dollar-store detergent couldn’t handle. But the truth is, to me, that is an emergency. Right now, I just need one thing, one familiar thing, to stay as I remember it.

“It’ll be about a half hour. Shall we sit?” Brian returns and gestures toward his living room. A giant burgundy leather Chesterton couch awaits us. It feels like a cloud swallowing me whole as I take a seat. I let my body sink into the comfortable cushions and sip slowly on the refreshing cold brew; the caffeine is like a lifeline, warding off the start of a subtle headache.

“Thanks for doing a load on the fly,” I say.

“No problem. I’m confident that lipstick will come out. I had this white shirt once, and all over the collar—”

“Okay, you know what? I think I’m good,” I say, interrupting him. “You can spare me the story about the time you got some girl’s makeup off your clothes.”

“I was actually going to tell you about the time my nephew gave me a hug while in the midst of a torrential nosebleed. It looked like my shoulder had been dip-dyed in a vat of red food coloring.”

“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. I can feel my cheeks turning the same shade of red as the lipstick stain.

“Came out crisp and clean like I bought it off the shelf at Banana Republic that very day. Moral of the story: in the Turbo Washer we trust.” He clinks his mug against mine in a pseudo cheers movement.

I’m not used to things other than my work being a neutralizer in my life, but his calming force is appreciated.

“Hey, can you help me with this, Char?” Brian hovers over a folded corner of a newspaper that’s resting on his coffee table.

“You get the New York Times?” I ask.

“Yeah, only on Sundays, though. I like to know how the East Coast sees the world these days.”

Perhaps he should take over my standing calls with The Jeaner, in that case.

“Don’t judge. I’m a little backed up on my puzzles, as you can see.” He points to a stack of at least ten more papers folded up in the corner of the living room, then diverts his attention back to the twelve-across. “Therefore? What the hell kind of a clue is that?”