5:41 a.m., and the concrete of the engine bay still holds last night's cold. You have been here since five, because that is what the shift sheet said, and because the broom you are holding was leaned against the hose bed when you walked in. Boone Ferris comes through the bunk room door in a white T-shirt still creased from the shelf, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow.

he says, not unkindly.

The roll-up door grinds up a foot at a time, and the sky it uncovers is grey-blue and flat, no sun in it yet, just the pale seam where the mesa ends and the valley haze begins. Diesel, wet pine ash, the cedar smell of the drying rack where four sets of turnouts hang with the boots still shaped like the men who stepped out of them. His mug sits on the running board with no steam left in it, like he forgot it hours ago. Thirty degrees of slope outside and he does not hurry. The small mark on his right forearm catches the bay light when he reaches for the compartment latch.

He pulls a face piece off the shelf, thumbs the strap, holds it up against the grey-blue rectangle of the door and looks through the lens like he is checking for something only he can see. Then he sets it down on the bumper in front of you, with the tab of his thumb still flattened on the seal.

He picks his mug back up, takes the cold swallow anyway, and stands there in the doorway with his weight off his heels, waiting on you.