“Do you have a minute?”

“For what?”

“Just a minute to talk, Jessie.”

She glanced around. The bar was mostly empty; the O’Rourke-Petrosinsky group the only people sitting at a table in the back. Victor Iskin was sitting at the bar with his latest taxidermied pet there on display, and Jordan was eying Connor and wiping the same spot on the counter over and over.

“I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes,” she said.

“I won’t take that long.”

With a deep breath, Jessica sat back down in the booth she’d just shared with Connor. Heard him laugh from across the room. Connor didn’t know Keith was here; he’d be at her side in a heartbeat if he did.

“What is it?” she asked.

Keith sat down. “I was wondering if you’d given any thought to my request.”

He smelled like soap. This was new. In her memory, her father always had that rank smell of cheap beer and stale cigarette smoke. His eyes were clear and blue, the long, straight lashes just like Davey’s. He’d lost the gross little beer gut he’d sported and was now skinny as a shoelace.

She didn’t say anything.

“I miss him, is all,” her father said, his voice husky.

“I’m sure you do,” she said. “Eight years is a long time to go without seeing someone.”

Another chorus of laughter came from the O’Rourke table.

“I owe you an apology for what I said last week,” Keith said. “You didn’t exaggerate anything. Your mother and I let you be the adult while I did nothing. I acknowledge that, and I’m sorry, Jess. You deserve the Medal of Honor as far as I’m concerned.”

“I love my brother more than anything or anyone. When I tell you I would kill anyone who’d hurt him, don’t think I’m exaggerating.”

“Oh, I believe you,” her father said with a sad smile. “You always were so fierce. Listen, I just want to see him. You can breathalyze me. Call my sponsor at AA if you want. I’ve waited over a thousand days for this, to make sure it would stick this time, that I could do it. Please, Jess. It can be however you want it. Just give me a chance to see him.”

She could feel the pulse in her stomach.

Davey had been so quiet this past week. A little somber, which was so unlike him, except for when Mom had died.

And he’d been so happy to see their father the other night.

Jessica glanced at her watch. Then she looked at her father. “We have drum circle tonight at seven over at the Art League. Next to the pizza place. You can come to that. Nothing afterward. You tell Davey you have to go when he asks if you can come over.”

“Oh, Jessie, thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

“It goes without saying that if I ever smell even the faintest hint of alcohol on you, I’ll get a restraining order. I used to sleep with the police chief, don’t forget.” She stood up, suddenly desperate to get back to work, to her clean office, to her tidy computer files.

“Understood.” Her father grabbed her hand. “I won’t let you down.”

She pulled her hand away. “That would be a first.”

* * *

“COME ON,” DAVEY SAID. “I don’t want to be late for drum circle! I love drum circle! Jess! We’re gonna miss drum circle!”

“We’re not late. See? It’s ten of. Just calm down.” But Davey was out of the car and running for the entrance the second she pulled into the parking lot.

Jess got out and sighed. This wasn’t what she yearned to do in her free time, but boy, did Davey love it.

Drum circle was exactly what it sounded like—a circle of people sitting on hard metal chairs with a lot of different types of percussion instruments to choose from, from bongo to Toca to maracas to Davey’s favorite, the cowbell. Jess generally went for the wooden block and stick, one of the less desired instruments each week.

Davey wasn’t the only special needs person here; Brody Tatum, a Downs kid, was here with his parents; Jess had waited on them dozens of times. Miranda Cho, who worked with Davey at the candle factory, was also here with her mother, who waved to Jess.

“Hi, Miranda,” Davey said, running up to her. “What’s your favorite instrument? Mine’s the cowbell. I love cowbell!” They had this conversation every week, verbatim. Well, Davey did. Miranda didn’t answer; Jess had never heard her speak. But she glanced at Davey with a shy little smile and went to the center of the circle, grabbed a big African drum, then sat down. Davey sat next to her, and Jess next to him, block and stick ready.

Tanner Angst—his real name—sat down on Jess’s other side, the better to bathe her in his tormented artist black cloud. Tanner felt he should’ve been the next Dave Matthews back in high school—and yes, she’d slept with him, once, and he hadn’t even been that good at looking out for Davey. He’d been the king of cool back then, but one semester at Berklee College of Music had shown him he wasn’t quite the special snowflake he thought. He now taught music at the middle school. Four years ago, he’d asked Jessica out and hadn’t yet forgiven her for turning him down, yet also couldn’t stay away from her. Some people could pull off brooding, Jess thought, picturing Connor. And some people just looked stupid.

She kept looking at the door. She didn’t have to wait long; Keith Dunn came in at two minutes before seven.

“Dad!” Davey was out of his chair and racing across the circle to greet their father.

“Hey, son!” Keith gave him a long hug, then tousled his hair. “Is it okay if I stay?”

“Yes! Yes, it is, Dad! Come sit with us. Come on! Get your drum. Or you can have the triangle! Here! Here’s the triangle! This is my best friend Miranda. Miranda, this is my father! Jess! Dad is here!”

“So I see.”

“Isn’t it great?”

“Yes.” She managed to smile at her brother, but her heart was thudding. “Sit next to me, why don’t you?” she said to her father. That way, she could smell if he’d been drinking. She turned to Tanner. “Do you mind moving over a seat?”

“Oh, Jessica. I didn’t see you there,” he said. “Fine. Whatever.”

Her father smelled like Ivory soap. Not a hint of booze, and Jess was an expert.

She felt a tiny stir of hope, then cut it off. Her father was here; he was sober at the moment; Davey was happy. That was all. Reading into it, or expecting it to last, would be idiotic.

“Thank you for this,” her father said quietly. She nodded once.

The circle was full now, and populated with some of the odder ducks in Manningsport, the creative souls who yearned to break free from the constrains of ordinary life. Jess stood out a little, as someone who had no rhythm—as shown by her aborted attempt at stripping—and as someone with no yearning to express herself artistically, someone who would quite love ordinary life.

“Gang, we’re here to express ourselves artistically,” said Debbie Meering, who ran the Art League. “This is a time for us to reach deep into our souls, envisioning our primordial roots in the swamps of time.”

Every week she came up with something weirder. Jess tried, unsuccessfully, not to roll her eyes.