Sanctuary

that nether-world just under full consciousness, he dreamed of a bird chirping happily on the near branch of the maple tree outside his window. There had been one in his youth, a mockingbird that sang its morning song every day for a full summer, greeting him so reliably that he had named it Bud.
    Hazy, hot days filled with the important business of bike riding and ball playing and Popsicle licking.
    The insistent wake-up call caused Nathan to greet every morning with a grin and a quick salute to Bud. He’d been devastated when Bud deserted him in late August, but Nathan’s mother said that Bud had probably gone off early for his winter vacation.
    Nathan rolled over and thought how odd it was that Bud should know how to whistle “Ring of Fire.” In the half dream the bird hopped onto the windowsill, a cartoon bird now, a Disney character with sleek black feathers and Johnny Cash’s weathered, been-there-done-that face.
    When the bird began executing some sharp choreography that included high kicks and fancy spins, Nathan jerked himself awake. He stared at the window, half expecting to see a richly animated cartoon extravaganza.
    “Jesus.” He ran his hands over his face. “No more canned chili at midnight, Delaney.”
    He rolled over facedown on the pillow. Then he realized that while the bird wasn’t there, the whistling was.
    Grunting, he crawled out of bed and stepped into the cutoffs he’d stepped out of the night before. Brain bleary, he blinked at the clock, winced, then stumbled out of the room to find out who the hell was so cheerful at six-fifteen.
    He followed the whistling—it was “San Antonio Rose” now—out the screened porch, down the steps. A shiny red pickup was parked behind his Jeep in the short drive. Its owner was under the house, standing on a stepladder and doing something to the ductwork while whistling his heart out. The ropy muscles rippling outside and under the thin blue T-shirt had Nathan readjusting his thoughts of quick murder.
    Maybe he could take Whistling Boy, he considered. They looked to be close to the same height. He couldn’t see the face, but the gimme cap, the snug jeans, and scruffy work boots said youth to Nathan.
    He’d think about killing him after coffee, he decided.
    “What the hell are you doing?”
    Whistling Boy turned his head, shot a quick, cheerful grin from under the bill of his cap. “Morning. You got some leaks here. Gotta get it up and running right before AC weather hits.”
    “You’re air-conditioning repair?”
    “Hell, I’m everything repair.” He stepped off the ladder, swiping a hand clean on the seat of his jeans before holding it out to Nathan. “I’m Giff Verdon. I fix anything.”
    Nathan studied the friendly brown eyes, the crooked incisor, dimples, the shaggy mess of sun-streaked hair spilling out of the cap, and gave up. “You fix coffee? Decent coffee?”
    “You got the makings, I can fix it.”
    “They got some sort of cone thing with a ...” Nathan illustrated vaguely with his hands. “Pot.”
    “Drip coffee. That’s the best. You look like you could use some, Mr. Delaney.”
    “Nathan. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for a real pot of coffee.”
    Giff gave a chuckling laugh, slapped Nathan smartly on the back. “You need it that bad, it’s free. Let’s go fix you up.”
    “You always start work at dawn?” Nathan asked as he shuffled up the steps behind Giff.
    “Get an early start, you enjoy more of the day.” He headed directly to the stove, filled the kettle at the sink. “Got any filters?”
    “No.”
    “Well, we’ll jury-rig her, then.” Giff tore off some paper towels, folded them cleverly, and slipped them into the plastic cone. “You’re an architect, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    Nathan ran his tongue over his teeth, thought fleetingly about brushing them. After coffee. Worlds could be conquered, oceans could be crossed, women could be seduced. After coffee. Life would be worth living again. After coffee.
    “I used to think I’d be one.”
    “Used to think you’d be one what?” Nathan prompted as Giff dug into the cabinet over the stove for coffee.
    “An architect. I could always see these places in my head, houses mostly, windows, rooflines, shades of brick and siding. Right down to the fancy work.” Giff scooped coffee out of the can and into the cone with the careless precision of habit. “I could even walk myself inside, go through the layout. Sometimes I’d shift things around.