Six A.M.

Six o’clock in April meant grey light rather than dark, which was the only difference Luca had ever needed between the two. He’d had the pass wiped down before the delivery van finished idling outside, the morning’s fish already iced, and nothing left to do except the thing he’d been doing since four: not sleeping, and calling it prep instead.

The schedule from last night sat at the edge of the steel, his own initials dried into the clause-nine box beside appearance twelve, the wedding — the only entry in four months he’d filled in before anyone asked him to. Beside his finished hand, her half of the box sat as empty as it had at midnight.

The service door opened at six. Hattie stood in the doorway in yesterday’s coat, the laminated schedule folded once in her hand, and came no further in than that.

For a moment neither…