Chapter 22

“I can spring for coffee, Junk.”

“Next time,” I said.

After calling me a dork not more than two hours earlier, Mickey had the confidence and immaturity to squeal, “Wheeeeee!” as I got the truck up to ten miles per hour going down the main strip in town. Dusk was settling by now, but every time I glanced back at him in the side view mirror, under illumination from a couple of early triggered streetlights, I could see him smiling.

The teenage boy who took the order was all smiles, too. “There’s something you don’t see every day,” he said.

Mickey had to hop down before I could pull forward to exit. Two hot coffees, one in each hand, left him without one to grip the grab bar in back.

“We’ll do it again sometime,” I said, “a longer ride.”

He never objected when I spoke of “agains” and “next times.” I took that as a good sign