Instead of the bright color combinations of most of the Victorian homes in Rendezvous Falls, the solid gray-blue paint scheme had been an act of defiance on Rob’s part. Now it was faded to simply...gray. It made the whole place look sad. And then there were the works of so-called art in the front yard. Shovels and rakes and metal ductwork formed into shapes. “Sculpting” had been Rob’s weirdest hobby. It gave the place character, that was for sure.

The lights in the workshop were on, and when he got out of his car, Mike could see Zoey inside. Her dark hair was tugged into a high messy knot held with a big plastic clip—the type that held bags of potato chips closed. Sure enough, a bag of chips sat open on the workbench. She wore a T-shirt that said something about wine. Zoey was bent over the bench in deep concentration. The woman was a whiz at machines, just like her dad. Even as a kid, she’d loved puzzles. That’s how they’d started their friendship—with riddles. He pulled out his phone and started typing.

M: The more I take, the more I leave behind. What am I?

She glanced over at her phone, then smiled when she saw it was from him. Something pinched at his heart. Did she always smile like that when he texted her? Did her face always soften...tension easing in every line? He hoped so. But he didn’t want to examine why. His phone pinged.

Z: I give up. Who are you?

M: Footsteps. Outside. With whiskey.

Zoey looked up at the door and waved him in. She didn’t say anything, just turned to the cupboard and brought out a couple of red plastic cups. He pulled a barstool over to the bench, opposite where she sat.

This was the “shop night” routine. Drinks—alcoholic or otherwise—late in the evening while Zoey tinkered on repairs. Some nights they talked nonstop, solving all the problems of the world or laughing about the characters in Ted Lasso. Some nights he just sat in relative silence, watching her work. He wasn’t sure what Zoey got from their shop nights, but he knew he got a dose of peace from it. No pretense. No secrets. No games. Just his best friend and a splash of whiskey.

They’d started this routine after his wife, Becca, was killed by a drunk driver three years ago. He couldn’t stand being in his house alone, dealing with all the ghosts of dreams that would never come true. Zoey invited him to stop by one night. She was working for her dad then, tackling the smaller items like vacuum cleaners or sewing machines in the shop. And their shop nights became a habit.