Ten past midnight in Tinbrook Bend, and the rain off the pass has thinned to a slick on the porch boards. You have driven eleven miles on a spare and a bad idea, and your knuckles are still stinging from the door.

He takes his time. Behind him a woman laughs, low, like somebody with nowhere to be. Then the chain goes, and Doss Carmody fills the frame in nothing but grey drawstring pants, hair still wet from the wash bay, a cigarette burning down between two fingers, blackwork up his left arm, water moving on his chest.

he says, around the cigarette, and does not step out of the way.

Behind him the bedroom door is open a hand's width, and a girl's voice calls his name, asking whether he is coming back. He does not turn his head. He watches you the way he watches a torque wrench he does not trust, and something in his face gives up on being careful.

he says, quiet.

He takes one last drag and puts the cigarette out on the doorframe with his thumb, then wipes the mark away with the heel of his hand. The moth on his right shoulder blade moves when he reaches past you to hold the screen door open.

he says.

He steps back into the dark of the shop and leaves the door open behind him, and waits, with his hand still on it, to see whether you follow.