We didn't sleep.
There wasn't a conversation about it, no decision made, no acknowledgment that we were both still awake at four AM in his kitchen because neither of us was capable of the transition that sleep required.
It simply happened the way things had been happening between us lately, without discussion, as if our nervous systems had arrived at a shared conclusion that our mouths hadn't caught up to yet.
He made coffee. I sat on the island. The city outside was doing its pre-dawn thing at that particular hour when the night crowd had gone home and the morning people hadn't started yet and Manhattan briefly, improbably, breathed.
We talked. Not about Hale or Reyes or the federal case or the morning ahead. About other things, the kind of things that surfaced at four AM between two
