“Harpo!” said Sam.
Harpo heard his name, then stumbled into Sam’s embrace, then stumbled out of it again. He held onto the registration desk. Mornings were getting more and more difficult.
“Thank you, Harpo,” said Sam.
Harpo felt the smooth surface of the counter, didn’t look up at his friend. He shouldn’t be thanked. He hadn’t found them yet, the letters, whatever else Simon may have given, whatever else Simon may have done. He hadn’t fixed anything. He would though. He wanted to, so badly. He’d stayed away from Sam’s wife at least. At least there was that.
“The window is a masterpiece,” said Sam.
“Oh.” That, Harpo hadn’t done either. Last night, William had sanded and straightened and pounded, then stained it all, while all Harpo had done was watched and breathed in the fumes. The r
