Nash is in the dirt yard with Diesel throwing the football, and Diesel has stopped pretending he's not Nash's dog now, which means somebody at the kennel is gonna lose a fight to a six-year-old about custody before the end of the week and it isn't gonna be the kid.
I climb Hadley's porch steps.
She's at the screen door before I knock in a yellow sundress.
The kind of pale yellow that's almost cream, with little white flowers on it that I'd bet money she picked up at a thrift store in Sharp because the hem has been let down once and re-stitched by hand.
Her hair's up but loose. She's got bare feet and a coffee mug in one hand and the screen door propped open with her hip. "Mornin', Rogue."
"Mornin', Hadley."
I hand her the plate.
"You bring it back washed?"
"I did."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
She takes the plate, sets it on the kitchen counter behind her and comes back to the door.
"You eat breakfast yet?"
"No, ma'am."
"Want some? Nash and I were just about to sit down."
I should say no.
I'm a man with a Ford Explorer headed south on US-69 right now and a half-decade-old account at the firm that just went hot.
The last thing I've got time for at seven thirty-five on a Wednesday morning is eggs at Hadley's kitchen table.
But, I want to have breakfast with her, terribly bad.
I say, "I'd appreciate that, Hadley."
She steps back and lets me through the screen.
Her kitchen smells like bacon, coffee, and the lavender soap she keeps by the sink.
Nash is at the table eating a bowl of Cheerios. He looks up when I come in and grins. "Mornin', partner."
"Mornin'."
"Mama's makin' me eggs."
"Lucky."
"You want eggs?"
"I do."
Nash slides over on the bench to make room for me even though there are two other empty chairs at the table.
I sit down beside him. Stitch is on the bench between us. I move him gently, set him on the chair across from me where he can keep an eye on things.