“Find anything?” she asked as soon as the door had whispered closed behind him. It was the same question she always asked when he returned from a hunting trip.
Most days, his answer was a terse, “No.” Tonight his demeanor pointed to a different result. “I caught a small one, I’ll tell you about it later.” He shivered. “It’s cold in here.”
She crossed the room from the counter, where the coffee pot had been waiting, its red light over-bright in the dusty gloom of their basement apartment. “The heater was making noise; I’ve called for a repair.” A cup was placed on the table in front of him, a plastic spoon set next to the equally plastic vessel. “Warm up before you tell me.”
He sipped the coffee between motions that divested him of his gear. First the pith helmet, then the military vest were set gently on the bench near the door. Something metallic rattled inside a pocket of the vest, the sharp staccato sound cutting through the static-y quiet that shrouded the room, and they both froze.
“Did that register?” she hissed.
He peered at the meter above the door, noted that the unmoving needle. “No,” he breathed softly. “We’re safe.” He sat down at the table and gingerly removed his boots, wiggling his sock-clad feet against the gray carpet. “Did you get the cataloguing done?”
She came to the table with her own plastic mug of coffee. “I got to the w’s. You have a bunch of jars labeled ‘wild percussion.’ Shouldn’t they be under ‘p’ ?”
