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“And then the plane landed.”

“And somewhere between those two things…?”

I stare into the mug. “Something happened.”

No need for all the details.

But he doesn’t press it. “Did you get her number?”

I roll my eyes. “No.”

I set the mug down and go back to the station.

This is why I don’t talk much. Once things are out, people get to touch them, turn them over, hold them up to the light. Some things look worse in the light.

Briggs watches me for another minute, then leans back again. “What sister?”

I look at him. “What?”

“If she’s local,” he says, “someone knows something.”

“Don’t start.”

“Not starting. Asking.”

“You asking is starting.”

His expression doesn’t change. “A missing woman is everybody’s business.”

That’s Briggs. Give him a problem with teeth and he’ll put himself between it and whoever might bleed.

I used to think that was a simple protective instinct.

It isn’t.

It’s grief with muscles. I know because I have my own version. Mine sits under the skin. Quiet, inked over, but still there.

“I don’t know enough to guess,” I say, evasive.

“Then we find out enough.”

“She didn’t ask me to.”

“People in trouble don’t always know how.”

I hate how true that is.

I turn the sketch toward him. “Arm.”

He gives me a look that says we’re not done, but he extends his arm anyway.

Work has always saved me, mostly because focusing on lines and skin leaves less room for everything else. Right now, I really need that.

I clean his skin, shave what little hair there is, place the stencil, adjust, remove, place again. Briggs doesn’t rush me. He never does. He trusts my eye more than I trust anything else about myself.

The stencil sits right the third time.

The fractured timber follows the muscle, roots reaching around old ink without swallowing it. There’s room for what was there before. Room for what comes next.