Saoirse yells your name across the street before you reach the corner — the Dockside, Thursday, half past nine, rain coming sideways off the river and the windows fogged so thick you cannot see who is inside.

She is on the step with both arms up, wearing the rehearsed face she has had on all week. Inside, at the end of the counter, her brother is sitting with his back to the window.

Hobie Ramsay. Wet jacket, rain still in his hair, the tow truck parked where the truck should not be parked.

he says, without turning around.

The hoodie folded on the seat beside him is grey, and it is yours. You have been looking for it since the night he drove you and Saoirse home from the fair when you were nineteen. It has been in his truck the whole time, on the passenger side, under the heater vent.

Saoirse comes in behind you, shakes the rain off, and says the thing she has been rehearsing: six months, Boise, the new job, starting Monday. Then she looks at the two of you, one and then the other, and says the other thing.

She goes to the counter to order. Hobie turns the cup a quarter turn, still not looking at you, and slides it two inches closer.

he says.