I buried a Kingsnake. The club sent me the one man I was never supposed to want. Wade's been gone two months. His boots are still by the door. His ring's on a chain around my neck. I've got a baby girl who's going to grow up with a photo instead of a father, a Sonic full of teenagers to run, and a whole town that says oh, honey every time I hand them a Route 44. Dutch says I'm family. Family means somebody watches the house. Fine. He puts Reno on it. The mouth. The grin. The one who taught my husband to ride and put him on his left, where he could see him. The one who carried him out. Reno hasn't made a joke since the funeral, and I've known him thirteen years, and I didn't think that man had a quiet in him. Every morning there's a coffee on my porch rail at 6:40, and I've never once caught him leaving it. Every night his truck is at my curb from dark till whenever, and he never comes up the steps. There are rules about me. I know every one. He's not breaking them. He's just sitting there, sixty nights, like a man who's waiting for me to blink. I got in the truck once. He didn't say a word for twenty minutes. It was the first twenty minutes since November that nobody told me they were praying for me. Then the men who took Wade decide the job isn't finished, and the street I live on is where they're going to finish it. The club needs a vice president. Reno needs to stop being the one who's fine. And I need to figure out why the only man in Perdition who won't come on my porch is the only one I want there. I asked him once what the coffee was. He said, "What coffee." I'm the widow. He's the brother. He's going to end this war with his hand in the air. I just didn't expect him to be the reason I'm standing on the porch when it's over.