Sunbeams - Part Two
This episode is part of a larger story, Soft Touch. If you haven’t yet, you can go back and read it from the beginning right here.
I can’t stop glancing back and forth between Floyd and Spencer. Nibbling my lip thoughtfully.
Floyd is strangely, unusually silent. Standing a few feet away from Spencer with his arms crossed tightly over his narrow chest. Trying to pretend that he’s not busy reading every page of every composition book that Spencer has left open in his apartment.
Spencer is keeping his head lowered over the French press, but I can make out the flaming color in his cheeks. The way he keeps quickly and fleetingly glancing sideways at Floyd.
Spencer shifts almost imperceptibly to put his face closer to the tiny kitchen window, then takes a long, shaky inhale of the cool air flowing in from outside. Golden shafts of sunlight spill in through it, lighting up his silvery black hair, his tawny skin, his remarkably stressed-out dark brown eyes.
I look between him and Floyd again, then sidle over to Aiden.
“I know exactly what you’re gonna say, Keane.”
Aiden said it so quietly that only I could hear it over the soft music from the radio, the breeze rustling the treetops beyond the windows.
I was looking up at him admiringly, briefly mesmerized by the playful little way he cocked an eyebrow at me when I stopped beside him.
I blink at him when his words actually sink in. “What? No you-”
I break off hastily, glancing over at Floyd and Spencer. But they’re so preoccupied with pretending to ignore each other that they’re accidentally ignoring us. Not listening as Aiden lowers his head towards me so I can speak closer to his ear.
“You don’t know what I was gonna say!” I whisper heatedly. “Maybe I just came over to tell you that you look cute when you’re working, did you ever think of that?”
Aiden huffs out a soft laugh, gently sliding a cotton-gloved fingertip up the edges of two pieces of paper, easing them apart. “So do you.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Um? I’m not working right now.”
“Yes you are, man.” Aiden casts me a knowing, sidelong smile, half-exasperated. “You’re trying to think of how to sort things out between Floyd and Spencer, aren’t you? Gearing up to get involved?”
I try to drop the busted expression from my face before Aiden sees it, but he does right away. The smile turning up his lips gets wider.
“Okay, not get involved,” I protest, blushing a little. “Just-”
“Yeah, yeah.” Aiden finishes separating the two pages, the deep rumble of his voice full of warm affection. “I know I can’t stop you. Just tell me what my part is.”
I cast him a grateful look, then point to the old pages he’s separating out. “Can you do this really slowly? Find me some time to get them talking?”
Aiden’s fingers slow down considerably in their work. “Do your thing, Linden.”
I beam up at him, then roll onto my toes to press a swift, grateful kiss on his mouth. “Thank you!”
I fall back onto my heels, then pause, sensing that we’re being watched.
Spencer caught the kiss between me and Aiden. He’s staring at us over his shoulder, something complicated storming deep down in his eyes.
He glances away quickly when I look back at him.
“Hey, Spencer,” Aiden rumbles, not noticing. “Mind if I check the other books from the estate sale, make sure we’re not missing any papers? I’ll be careful not to accidentally grab another man’s ancient Playboy.”
Spencer gives himself a shake, lets out a nervous laugh. “Oh - yes, go ahead. Worth the risk, I’d say! It’s always better to be thorough.”
Floyd makes a soft sound from the other side of the studio, almost like a laugh.
“Same old Spencer,” he murmurs, putting his back to us.
Spencer pauses, then starts looking around wildly, determined not to meet anybody’s gaze. His tall, lanky body is all tensed up, and he startles a little when the boiling water hisses on the stove. He whips around to start making the coffee, obviously relieved to have something to do with his hands.
I hesitate, twisting the heist ring around my finger, not sure what to do. Anything I say could set off Floyd or Spencer or both of them. With the way they argue, the place will be in uproar in seconds.
And I have a feeling that Spencer might be the kind of sensitive soul who cries easily, because - well, takes one to know one.
But I can almost see the deep connection between Spencer and Floyd. The way they’re caught in each other’s orbit, and have been since the instant they set eyes on each other today.
I honestly can’t guess what sort of relationship they used to have, but - there was something. There must have been, for them to look like this right now. I’ve never seen Floyd this quiet and unsure of himself, and Spencer looks like he’s trying his hardest not to go completely to pieces.
Naomi is the chillest one in the room at the moment, slowly exploring around the piles of papers and books on the table, leaving tiny wet prints. Aiden is kneeling near the box from the Kemp estate sale, going through each book at a speed that matches the turtle’s.
He shoots me a look, like - you’re on the clock.
He’s right. He can’t stall forever.
I turn around, searching desperately for inspiration. My eyes land on the bookshelf behind me.
All of Spencer’s bookshelves are overflowing with books, mostly ones we could probably find for sale downstairs in his shop or referenced on his research wall. Mysteries, magic, and the occult, primarily, although there are some other kinds of books mixed in. A few volumes of poetry and fiction by Oscar Wilde. A biography of someone named Robert Baldwin Ross.
But the bookshelf behind me is different from all the others. It’s full of composition books. Rows and rows of them, neatly labeled on the spines in Spencer’s careful handwriting.
Spencer sets out the coffee, some mugs, a jug of milk, and a little bowl of sugar on the table, on the opposite end from where Aiden is working. “Help yourself, Jamie.”
“Oh, thank you!”
Spencer starts assembling a cup as I come over, despite his mocha ready to go and steaming gently on the kitchen countertop behind him. Maybe he forgot about it? He does look miles beyond flustered.
“What are those, Spencer?” I point at the bookshelf with all the composition books. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
Spencer glances up, then carefully measures out two spoons of sugar into the coffee cup. “Oh - those are my casebooks. I keep them going for different things I’m interested in, or doing research on.”
He’s blushing a tiny bit. Embarrassed of them, the same way he was of the research wall.
“Wow.” I arch my eyebrows at Spencer. “You can fill up a whole composition book, like - per thing?”
Floyd turns back to face us, casting a quick look at Spencer. “He can fill up fifty composition books, believe me. Per topic.”
Spencer makes an irritated face at Floyd, then hands him the cup of coffee he just finished making. Floyd accepts it, crossing to look at the bookshelf. He stands there reading all the handwritten titles, sipping on his coffee. Spencer scoops up his mocha and leans stiffly back against the kitchen counter, watching him.
I guess Spencer forgot that he told Floyd he couldn’t have any coffee. Maybe making him a cup was so second-nature that he just did it without thinking. And so second nature to Floyd that he took it without thinking, too.
I think that both Spencer and Floyd would be shocked by the little gesture, if either of them realized it had happened.
Floyd suddenly goes very still, staring up at the topmost row of composition books, then slowly glances at Spencer over his shoulder.
“You’ve got the ones from the paper here?” He sounds more than a little taken aback. “You kept them?”
Spencer lowers his eyes and takes a sip from his mug, keeping his expression to himself. “Mhm. Top shelf is the Graveyard.”
Aiden looks up from the box of books, baffled. “What’s the Graveyard?”
“The Graveyard,” Floyd sighs, with real pain in his voice, “Is where all of the best journalism that Spencer and I did at the newspaper ultimately ended up. Every time we wrote a piece and it got axed, never printed, or they told us to drop the story, we would say it had gone to the Graveyard.”
Aiden arches an eyebrow at Floyd. “Didn’t they assign you pieces to write?”
“Yeah, and we would do them. But we were always working on pieces we thought were more important, on our own time. Hoping we could get the paper to bite if we handed them a finished product.” Floyd shrugs helplessly at Aiden. “But they never did.”
“Why?”
“The owner of the newspaper had his own view of this country. A very specific, very narrow view.” Old, burning frustration flares up in Spencer’s eyes. “He was a young guy, not much older than Floyd and I were. But he had money. He bought out the paper from the original owner, the one who had hired me and Floyd… it was a shame. It was real journalism, before him...”
Spencer trails off, then adds, in a dark, growling voice - “Even thinking about him now gets me angry all over again.”
Floyd looks over sharply at Spencer, blinking hard and fast. He looks deeply confused and startled, for some reason.
Spencer doesn’t notice, because he’s still glaring at the floor in frustration. I open my mouth to ask Floyd if he’s okay, but he turns back to me and Aiden, giving himself a little shake.
“Anyways, the editors were chosen by the owner,” he explains. “So, anytime that Spencer and I wrote anything that brought up some injustice, or criticized something about this country, we were essentially told that we were being too negative. Unless it was a piece about the horrors of marijuana, or whatever the bullshit of the week was. Then being negative was positive, apparently.”
“And when we wrote upbeat pieces that no one could call negative, we were pretty much told we were crazy.” Spencer pauses, then adds, slightly shame-faced, “Usually because it had to do with aliens. And once vampires.”
A sheepish grin flashes very quickly across Spencer’s face as Aiden and I both laugh.
“Yeah, but more than anything, I think the guys who ran the paper just didn’t want us to write anything that might piss people off. Starting with the paper’s owner.” Floyd lets out a deep, regretful sigh, looking up at the top shelf of Spencer’s bookcase. “We wrote a lot of good stuff that never made it anywhere.”
“God, wait, so you had done all this work?” I ask, amazed, staring up at the row of composition books. “All this research, and…?”
“Mhm. Never read by anyone, ultimately. Except some of the other guys at the office, so they had more stuff to laugh at us about.” Spencer tips his head slightly to the side, then nervously pushes a hand through his silver hair. “I can’t say I did all the work, though. Pretty much every single one of those, Floyd and I did together.”
I turn slowly, then lift a hand to the topmost shelf. I only realize what I’m doing once I’ve hooked a finger onto one of the composition books and pulled it down.
I cast a guilty glance at Spencer, starting to put it back. But he gives his shoulders a shy shrug of permission.
Aiden comes to peer over my shoulder as I ease open the old casebook. A breathful of that comforting old-paper scent rises up from its pages, which are worn soft with time.
A title is written on the first page. In Spencer’s neat hand, it reads -
The Painful History and Lasting Legacy of the Comstock Laws
In Floyd’s wild, excited handwriting, right beneath that - And What Should Be Done About It!
I begin flipping through the casebook, my eyes slowly widening in disbelief. There are pages and pages of writing in both Floyd and Spencer’s hand, mingled together in some places. In other places they’ve scribbled in the margins of each other’s work, left notes to the point that the white of the paper is barely visible.
Some of the notes aren’t edits, but messages between Floyd and Spencer. Little back and forths. Them arguing in the margins about whether or not a theory was worth proposing, mingled with things like HAH told you I was right, takeout is on you tomorrow and Floyd did you really think I wouldn’t notice you snuck this paragraph back in?
There are endless drafts and revisions. Copies of related images that could go with the article. Pages that were written on a typewriter, then stapled into the pages of the composition book. Long lists of references. Copies of correspondence that Floyd and Spencer sent to different government agencies in search of information. And more, and more…
And at the end, folded up, tucked neatly into the composition book, is a typewritten article. All the findings, put together in a neat sheaf of pages. It looks pretty much ready to go, except that Floyd and Spencer both wrote some notes in the margins, final corrections to make, underlined misprints.
Speechless, I look up at the shelf again, the full row of casebooks. I run my eyes over the titles, then start pulling random ones.
There are all different kinds of stories, ranging through all different kinds of topics. Which doesn’t surprise me, because while Floyd and Spencer both have their favorite areas of interest - they find everything interesting.
There’s an article about student strikes on university campuses, including personal interviews with the organizers. An in-depth comparison between the effects of the prohibition on alcohol in the 1920s and the effects of the modern-day prohibition on drugs. A scathing piece analyzing and then tearing apart the U.S.’s justifications for the invasion of Grenada, in which Spencer had to cross out a lot of written cursing done by Floyd. An article about banned books, and a teacher who was fired for giving a student one of them.
One article that I suspect Spencer had more of a hand in than Floyd - and one I can definitely see being instantly rejected by the paper - is a piece entitled The Real Impact: Examining American Misconceptions of Satanism and the Black Mass.
There are stories I can definitely tell Floyd took the lead on, too. But every casebook I take down is filled to the edges with both Floyd and Spencer’s intermingled handwriting.
There’s only one exception. The very last casebook in the row, which has only Spencer’s handwriting. Not Floyd’s. And the pages are… mostly empty. Only on the first two did Spencer write anything, and most of it is crossed out, the deep gouges of the pen full of obvious frustration.
Aiden is just as fascinated as I am by the casebooks. He’s reading the final draft at the back of one of them while I flip through some of the others. We’re so absorbed that I’m almost startled to look up and remember that the two people who did all this are standing right next to us.
Floyd and Spencer both seem seriously thrown off to be standing together, surrounded by all of their open casebooks. The pages are reflecting in Spencer’s rectangular glasses and in Floyd’s perfectly round ones as the two of them gaze around at their work. In every direction, a page with their handwriting mixed together.
Floyd slowly reaches out and picks up one of the casebooks. I took a look at that one. It’s a story about expensive countryside houses being rented out as home bases for smuggling activities. Connecting the ownership of those houses to the wife of a police official.
Floyd stands in a pool of sunshine, staring down at the casebook, his jaw tensing up. His ringed fingers tighten around it. Something moves, deep in his eyes.
Spencer bends over Floyd to look down at the casebook he picked up. The instant he sees which one it is, he snaps upright and turns his face aside. Hiding his expression. Suddenly holding very still.
“This - th-this is so…” he begins, then fades off, running a trembling hand through his silvery hair.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I close the casebook I’m holding, alarmed and dismayed at the slight break I just heard in his hoarse words. “Sorry, Spencer! We’ll put them back!”
“D-don’t be sorry,” he rushes to answer, in a dry, rasping voice. “It’s okay! I just - I haven’t taken these down in a long t-time-”
“Wait...” Floyd is looking down at the coffee he’d been drinking, which he set down on the table to pick up the casebook. He lifts his wide-eyed gaze up to Spencer, brows knitted. “Did you give this to me?”
“N-no problem, Jamie, I c-c-can do that!” Spencer sets down his own coffee, then hurries forward and gently takes the casebooks out of my hands, carefully not looking at Floyd. “They g-go in a s-specific o-order, anyways.”
He starts sliding the casebooks back into place. Swallowing repeatedly, his eyes misted up behind his glasses, his cheeks burning a dusky red color. He sounds like he can’t find a breath.
Floyd blinks at him, then steps closer. He rests a hand on Spencer’s upper arm, his eyes full of concern, his head tilted almost all the way back to look up at him.
“Spence?” he asks softly.
Spencer freezes, lost, wide-eyed. His gaze drops to Floyd’s hand on his arm. He stares at it like he can hardly believe what he’s seeing. Then he looks around wildly, like he wants to beg someone for help.
Without warning, he drops the casebooks back onto the shelf, then swiftly turns around. He bumps right into the table, staggers back, and rushes around it, making for the door, his long strides getting him there fast.
“Sorry, I - f-forgot - forgot s-something d-d-downstairs,” he says in a rough, breathless voice, without turning around. “Be right b-b-back.”
He bends and rushes through the door, closing it after himself.
Floyd stands there with his hand still held out, staring down at it with a stunned expression on his face. I think he might have actually shocked himself into silence.
I get the sense that he’s playing back his own words in his head, that it’s slowly dawning on him what he said to Spencer.
“Floyd!” Aiden stares at him with wide eyes, gesturing at the door Spencer disappeared through. “What just happened?”
“I - I-”
“Okay, come on,” I whisper-shout, keeping an eye on the door. “You have to tell us what’s going on here!”
“I - it’s just - it’s a long story!” Floyd is struggling desperately to snap out of it. He looks dazed, seriously shaken. “Spencer and I, we - we were, sort of - I don’t know. I was - very lonely before I met him, if you must know, but then I did, and we hit it off pretty much right away, we did everything together, and - he meant so much to me, eventually we decided to be, sort of… I don’t know how to - it’s hard to define! It wasn’t exactly-”
Floyd blinks hard and fast, running out of breath, faltering. He closes his eyes, then sinks down into Spencer’s armchair and puts his head in his hands.
Aiden and I look at each other, caught by surprise.
Aw, Aiden mouths at me.
“Alright, listen,” I say gently, resting a hand on Floyd’s shoulder. “You don’t have to define it, man. You and Spencer know what it is, that’s what matters. But - whatever fucked everything up between you two, isn’t it time you guys worked it out? I’m sorry, but clearly you still mean a lot to each other.”
Floyd snaps upright, trying to glare at me and Aiden, but the look in his eyes is more hurt than anything. He folds his arms over his chest, some dark and distant memory flashing through his eyes.
“Who says that he still means anything to me? Or that I-? It’s been forever, it’s not-”
“So why did you get so excited at first when you realized we had to come here, Floyd?” Aiden goes back to the papers spread out on the table, starts separating out the last few ones stuck together. “Were you really just hype to come here and have a look at the guy’s research on - I don’t know. Megalithic monuments?”
“First of all, Aiden, you’re a Megalithic monument,” Floyd answers, then accepts the first bump I offer him. “Second of all, it’s not that I was excited about the chance to see him, because I wasn’t. I wasn’t, Aiden, stop looking at me like that!”
“Floyd, can I ask you something?” I blurt out. “How many subscribers does your blog have?”
“My-? Well, it’s not exactly set up for people to subscribe, it’s just - on the bookshop’s website,” Floyd explains, surprised by the question. “But everything I post gets at least one like! Well. Usually just the one. But if you add them all up, that’s a lot!”
I stare at Floyd, my head spinning as I do the math. Spencer’s blog has exactly one subscriber. Floyd’s posts get exactly one like each. And I know for a fact they both read each other’s blogs. Blogs that talk about the kind of theories and discussions and debates they used to have with each other in person.
I think… in a strange, roundabout way, Floyd and Spencer have been talking to each other for years. Almost… sending love letters to each other.
Maybe different kinds of love from either side, if my suspicions are correct. And in a very specific, Floyd-and-Spencer form. But love letters, all the same.
All without realizing what they were doing. Without realizing who the intended recipient was, or that there was one at all.
Without realizing that the intended recipient was getting the message, every time.
For years. How many, I can’t even guess.
“Oh, Floyd,” I stammer, running a disbelieving hand over my forehead. “You - you have to work things out with Spencer, this is-”
“No, I - I think we should just get out of here.” Floyd gets up and takes a hasty step back, waving his hands at me, silver rings flashing. “This was a terrible mistake. I should have just stayed in the fucking car. It’s pretty clear that Spencer doesn’t want me here, and I - I knew that already, I was being s-”
Floyd cuts himself off sharply as Spencer pushes open the door, bending to step back into his little sunlit studio. He unfolds his tall frame and straightens up, but his lanky shoulders are curled in defensively. His expression is under control, his rectangular glasses newly polished, but - through them, his dark brown eyes still look shell-shocked, and his lashes are wet.
“Sorry about that!” he says, in a determinedly relaxed voice that reveals only the tiniest tremble of strain beneath. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and clears his throat, careful to look at me and Aiden instead of at Floyd. “Made any progress with the papers?”
We all look at Aiden, who silently apologizes to me with his eyes before he answers: “Yeah, we’re all set. I took pictures of all of them. Thanks, Spencer.”
“Oh.” Spencer draws back, blinking at him. “I - thought you were going to go through them here.”
“We could,” Aiden says, and looks at Floyd.
Floyd hesitates, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. He stares into Spencer’s face searchingly, but Spencer resolutely doesn’t look at him. He’s staring straight down at the table, his eyebrows knotted, his hands fisted in his pockets. I know he can feel Floyd’s eyes on him, but he won’t look up and meet them.
I could swear I see some flash of crestfallen disappointment move across Floyd’s face.
He swallows, then beckons to me and Aiden.
“No,” he says quietly. “We’ll just - get out of your hair.”
Spencer’s eyes finally dart up to Floyd, then down again too fast for us to make out anything about his expression. But his shoulders drop slightly as Aiden starts to stack up the papers again.
“Okay,” is all he says.
“Thank you, Spencer,” I jump in quickly. “We really appreciate you helping us out! And it was super nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, man.” Aiden pulls off one of his gloves to clasp Spencer’s shoulder, smiling earnestly at him. “S’been a pleasure. You ever come to Ketterbridge, stop by the City Hall archives, I’ll show you around.”
Spencer blinks at us in surprise. He flashes me and Aiden a tiny, warm smile, then gently scoops up Naomi, who retreats into her shell.
“I’ll just - show you out, then,” he says, already heading for the stairs.
“And we will scope your blog when we get home,” Aiden tells Spencer, following Floyd into the stairway. “Sounds like something Jamie would probably read, anyways.”
Floyd lets out a scoffing sound as we file down the stairs. “One word for you boys: Atlantis.”
Spencer steps off of the stairs into the bookshop and whips around, scowling deeply.
“I’ve got one word for you, Floyd! Fuck off, you dumb-” He pretends to do some counting on his fingers. “No, wait, that’s gonna be five.”
Floyd bounds down the stairs to stop beside Spencer in the bookshop, then stabs a finger at his chest. “Five more than ever should have been written about Atlantis!”
“That’s funny, Floyd!” Spencer answers, his voice rising to a roar. “I have a feeling you’re gonna go home and write a whole bunch more, yourself! Probably just to go against mine, goddamnit!”
Aiden and I stop at the foot of the stairs and stand there for a moment, watching as Floyd and Spencer start shouting into each other’s faces, stabbing fingers at each other, gesturing aggressively even as Spencer gently cradles Naomi in one hand.
“I could watch this forever,” I whisper to Aiden, hypnotized.
He nods in agreement, fighting down a laugh. “I feel like they could do this forever. Happily.”
“-altogether too much of what we claim to know about Atlantis comes from the very unreliable theories of Ignatius L. Donnelly!” Floyd is roaring.
“Well-” Spencer begins forcefully, then stops, nibbling his lip.
“Yeah,” he says haltingly, in a slightly abashed way. He winces down at Floyd. “It might. It might. Might be true, that.”
Floyd stops, startled. He and Spencer stare at each other uncertainly, then both break into soft laughter at the same time.
Floyd starts to lift his hand like he’s going to affectionately touch Spencer’s arm, then seems to realize what he’s doing. He instantly drops it back to his side, growing serious again.
Spencer caught the little movement, though. He quickly grows serious again, too.
They rush to look away from each other, falling silent.
“Guess - guess we’d better go,” Floyd says, taking a step back.
All remaining traces of the smile fall from Spencer’s face, but he nods. “Okay.”
Floyd slowly takes a deep breath, then another step back. “Bye, Spencer.”
Spencer stares straight up over his head, the muscle in his jaw flexed. “B-b-bye, F-Floyd.”
Floyd hesitates, hovering there for a moment before he slowly turns and sets off for the door. Aiden and I wave to Spencer, then set off after him.
Floyd crosses the cobblestones through the fading Port Sitka sunlight towards his car, without looking back.
Aiden and I follow after him, but I do look back as we reach the car. Spencer is watching Floyd go from his quiet, sunlit bookshop. Motionless, blinking hard and fast, holding Naomi in both hands.
I think I see his expression collapse as he turns away, but the sunlight is fading fast, and it’s impossible to say for sure.
~~~~
Floyd is completely silent, the whole drive home. He stares straight ahead through the windshield, not saying a word.
It’s so startlingly unlike him that it might actually be the strangest thing to happen today, except that he hasn’t asked to see the pictures. The pictures of the Kemp papers. They might have answers about our case, we haven’t looked at them yet, and Floyd hasn’t said a single thing about it. I actually think he might have forgotten about it.
So that’s the strangest thing to happen today. I think. Honestly, there’s some fierce competition for that title.
Either way, Floyd is deep in his thoughts, so Aiden and I let him be. Aiden drives - having moved the seat from all the way forward to all the way back - and Floyd stares out at the Sitka spruces until they turn into the greenery of Ketterbridge. Half-listening to the conversation that Aiden and I are having, but not really. He only rouses himself from his thoughts when we park his car outside of our house.
He emerges from them blinking hard, staring around like he doesn’t know where he is, or where he’s been over the length of the drive.
“Sorry, boys!” He springs out of the passenger’s seat and hurries around to the driver’s side, where he puts the seat all the way forward again. “Just have a lot on my mind at the moment!”
“We understand,” Aiden rumbles, then pauses in surprise as Floyd slips right back into his car. “Um - did you not want to come in and look at the pictures?”
“The pictures? Oh. No, I - not tonight, I’m sorry. I can’t.” Floyd shuts the car door, flashing us an apologetic look. “You boys go ahead without me. There’s something I’ve - got to take care of.”
Aiden and I step back, watching as Floyd turns the car around and drives off into the deepening indigo dusk.
“He turned left,” Aiden observes, folding an arm around me.
Relief spreads sweetly and warmly through my chest. I look up at Aiden, pressing my fingers over my mouth. “That won’t take him to Greenrock.”
“Nope.” Aiden looks down at me, breaking into a slow, warm smile. “Should take him right back to Port Sitka.”
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