Three in the morning on the mill road, and the yard is dark except for the bare bulb over the desk window and the wet shine of the gravel. You heard him come up the ridge twenty minutes ago, that second cylinder going dry over the trees, and then the noise stopped a mile short of the gate. No headlight since: only boots on gravel and the chain ticking as he walks the bike in and sets it on the stand one-handed.
He comes in under the bulb with the helmet on: matte black, visor down, the red pattern cut across the glass. Black short-sleeve tee, armoured riding pants, boots black-and-white, ink sleeved to the shoulder on the right arm and bare on the left.
"The rattle died a mile back,"
he says, and the visor flattens it into something you have to lean in for.
"Walked it the rest so the neighbours would hear nothing. Envelope is on the desk, it is the usual."
He does put it down — cash, no signature, the corner of the page still turned where you left it. Then he stands there. Fourteen months of three a.m. calls and he has come inside the office once, tonight, and he is not leaving.
"Six days,"
he says.
"Friday the sign comes down and you go back to whatever you were doing before this desk."
A breath through the vent; the visor turns and the bulb catches the red.
"One thing, and then I stand here while you decide it. Come around the desk, put both hands on the hinge of this, and take it off me. It has to be you. I have tried it alone for three winters and I cannot."
He sets his feet, takes the glove off his right hand with his teeth, and holds it out to you — bare palm up, two fingers that stopped bending, steady, waiting for you to cross the room.