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to look after tonight, even if only for a short time. Melissa and I have a few passing, awkward moments while we wait for the wrecker, and then I’ll be left with a pile of what-ifs.
    The percolator snorts with long, watery burbles. It’s an obnoxious intrusion into the delicate silence between us and reminds me that we’re two people who don’t know each other anymore. There’s some sense of familiarity, but it’s skewed and out of focus.
    We used to be worth something—the sum of her and me together. Sticky summer nights when I’d swing by the frozen custard stand after she got off work…the biting autumn scents as the sun went down over the football field, sitting close enough I could smell her shampoo…
    A frantic rapping at the door interjects. A flash of heat surges beneath my collar. Both our heads turn in agitated surprise, at first hesitant to respond.
    “Are you expecting anyone?” The whites of Melissa’s eyes show more prominent than ever. The fragile edge to her voice tells me she’s ill at ease.
    “No…no I’m not.” I step to the door just outside the kitchen, wondering who would be calling at this hour. I’ve stomached all the nonsense I can for a night and won’t tolerate it on my doorstep.
    A few possibilities present themselves as I unlock the deadbolt and twist the knob. The first is that Willis Freed followed us home and I’ll find him simpering on the other side. The second is that there will be a group of those bastard kids, slinking in the darkness.
    I’m wrong. Standing in the weak glow of the lone lamplight, breathing in quick rasps, is a pale Mordecai Mothersbaugh. I know him to see him, but we’ve never exchanged words.
    Mordecai opens his mouth but pauses, as if he’s not sure how he’ll say what he wants. He turns to look over his right shoulder before he speaks. “I…would you mind if I stepped in from the cold for a bit? I saw your light on…”
    Somewhat caught off-guard, I comply, stepping backward to let him in.
    “The wind is brutal,” he says as if to justify his request. A few dark locks remain plastered to his forehead as he brushes back a disheveled tangle. His round glasses fog in the warmth. Stomping his good leg, snow falls in clumps on the coarse, woven rug.
    “Yeah, I guess it’s one of those nights.” I hesitate for a moment, not sure what to say. “Would you like some coffee?”
    Mordecai removes his glasses and wipes them on a white handkerchief. “Yes—thank you…” His mouth hangs open as if to say more.
    “You’re welcome to have a seat,” I say as I lead him into the kitchen.
    “I’m sorry.” He halts when he sees Melissa still huddled beneath her coat. “Am I intruding?”
    “Oh, no—we’re not…” Melissa’s voice rises, apologetic as if she has to explain why she’s here, then trails off. “We’re just waiting.”
    Mordecai drops into the seat opposite Melissa, heaving a sigh as he does so. “I suppose we’re all waiting.” He breathes at an even pace; he seems to have regained his composure.
    I place a steaming mug in front of him. “Waiting for what?”
    Mordecai looks up, eyebrows raised. “Waiting for the wind to change, waiting for an excuse, waiting for the Lord to stir something inside you… Everybody is waiting for something.”
    I lean against the counter with my own mug. He speaks so matter of fact that I wonder if he’s used to having people take him at his word.
    He’s a preacher of course, so he probably likes having an audience. Not that I have anything against religion…it’s just that I don’t need a lecture.
    Melissa maintains a fixed gaze on him, the lines in her face now relaxed, suggesting she’s comforted by his presence. “Can I ask you a question?”
    Mordecai tips his head with a respectful nod.
    “What would you say to a person who’s waiting for relief?”
    “Relief from what?”
    “Anything. Everything…” Melissa tucks an unruly strand of chestnut hair behind her ear and