Our walk back to the office is silent. Main Street has rolled up for the night, with only the pub casting a beacon into the dark. Even the deli next to our office is closed, and I despair that I must cook dinner for myself.
The samovar that sits in our front window throws a golden glow onto the sidewalk. This feels like home, but Malcolm is quiet, oddly so. I want to say something to him but don’t know where to start. When I cast him a sidelong glance, he turns toward the door, wrinkles his nose. I step back, pluck my shirt, and bring the fabric close to my face. I sniff. The holding cell comes flooding back—all stale, burnt coffee, that earthy aroma, and a hint of whisky.
“I stink, don’t I?” I say.
“Maybe a little.”
“Maybe a lot?”
His laugh is soft. He nods toward the door. “Let’s go
