Where else?
Owen.
Nate.
Me.
Standing by the silver Honda.
“I’m still sending my statement to the board,” Owen said.
“It doesn’t matter what Voss did.”
“I still didn’t answer.”
“That part is still mine.”
Nate looked at him.
“You’ll lose your license.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe they’ll suspend it.”
“Maybe they’ll make me do a program.”
“Maybe I lose it for good.”
“But I’ll lose it standing up.”
“You carried me for a year, Nate.”
“Let me walk on my own.”
Nate pulled him into a hug.
Hard.
Two grown men crying next to a parking pay machine.
I looked away to give them that.
When Owen drove off, Nate leaned against his car.
“You recorded him,” he said.
“I did.”
“You planned that.”
“I planned for the worst.”
“It’s my job.”
He laughed.
Then he stopped.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
“No, I need to say it right.”
He turned to face me.
