Harry Pritchard, leaning elbows on the bar, laughing amid a group of friends, comfortable in rolled-up shirtsleeves and an open collar, caught sight of Richard’s indecisive hovering near the door. He lifted a hand, a wave. Richard, astonished, only belatedly waved back; Harry’s mouth quirked into a smile, though he did not come over.
He had come over. To Richard’s home. Once or twice—no, three times now—since Jeremiah’s miraculous return. Had come bringing tins of cocoa, and some spare oil for lamps, and a container of oatmeal.
Richard had not known how to respond. A thank you? An invitation to stay? A return gift? How did people interact?
He’d offered, finally—that third morning—to make and share some of the cocoa. He’d said, no doubt too bluntly, that it’d been a good choice, since he
