“Downward dog?” North said. His voice was always like a bonfire ready to catch. Once, when Shaw was drunk, he had told North he liked his voice. North said it was an ugly voice, from too much whiskey; Shaw pointed out that North never drank whiskey. North then said it was too many cigarettes. Shaw pointed out that North had stopped smoking. North then told him to fuck off. Shaw had.

“You’re into yoga now,” North said.

Shaw lay on the floor, considering the dust bunnies hiding under the cabinets. “It’s spiritually and physically cleansing.”

“Uh huh.” North stepped over him.

“It helps you live in the present.”

North grunted.

“They had a special about it on the Today show, and I’m really trying to work on being here. Present. Mindfulness, you know?

The big Red Wing boots rattled the floor; a few dried, forgotten leaves of cilantro tumbled like Godzilla was crossing the room. Shaw stayed where he was and admired the view: North in his Carhartt jacket, leaning against the fridge as he rifled the produce drawers. As usual, North’s hands were taped, the busted knuckles swollen. Two freshly blackened eyes—those incredible light blue eyes, like the rim of light on an icefield or fresh snowfall—cut toward Shaw.

“Where’s the smoked cheddar?”

“Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh? Where the fuck is my cheese?”

“We’re starting a new diet today.”

“We are?”

“I was reading on Mother Jones the other day about dairy.”

“You were.”

“Dairy, the silent killer.”

“That wasn’t the title.”

“It was something like that. And then I saw another article on Huffpost—”

“No.”

“I did. It was about inflammatory—”

“Where is my cheese, Shaw?”

“I threw out all the unhealthy stuff.” Then Shaw dragged himself up, bumped past North, and reached into the fridge. “I bought these tofu bars.”

“So help me Christ and His holy mother,” North said, pressing the door closed on Shaw, who was still reaching into the fridge, “I will crush your bony body inside this refrigerator if you don’t get me a fucking wheel of cheese in the next five fucking minutes. A wheel, Shaw. The size of my fucking head.”

Grunting, Shaw abandoned the tofu bars and tried to extricate himself before North crushed his ribcage; the door pinned him in place. “Uh. Right. Cheese. Big as your head. Just, I’m kind of stuck . . .”

North flashed him a huge smile, but he didn’t ease back on the door. “While I’ve got you here.”

Shaw gulped.

“About last night.”

“Uh huh.”

“How was your date?”

“Oh.”

“What does that mean? Oh. What does that mean?”

“He seemed really nice.”

“And?”

“Well, he said something really funny. We were talking about why people need to recognize proto-vegetable rights—well, I guess I was talking about that, and he was listening, and then he said—”

“Don’t do that.”

“It was my date. I can talk about proto-vegetable rights—”

“Don’t give me one example of something that went well and then no explanation about the rest of the fucking night. What happened?” North’s eyebrows shot up. He pulled back six inches—not letting up on the fridge door—and took in Shaw’s appearance. “You got laid.”