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“First selling point,” he says. “The view.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Milwaukee has lake views, professional hockey, restaurants that understand seasoning, and winters brutal enough to justify owning seventeen coats. You already dress like every public appearance requires a wardrobe change, so you’ll flourish.”

“I own a boutique in Michigan.”

“You could own a boutique in Michigan and visit Milwaukee.”

“That isn’t relocating.”

“I’m easing you into the concept. My degree taught me not to introduce major life changes too quickly.”

“Your degree has nothing to do with relocation presentations.”

“My degree applies whenever I want it to.”

He gestures toward the skyline. “The Inferno arena is eight minutes away if Ryan drives, twelve if a law-abiding citizen drives, and twenty-five if I’m driving because I occasionally become distracted.”

“By what?”

“Billboards, food, attractive pedestrians, and the crushing weight of existence.”

“That last one became unexpectedly dark.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“That’s a Whitman quote, and it tells me you spend way too much time with Ryan.”

He smiles like it’s a compliment, then points toward several buildings as though I could distinguish any of them from this height.

“The lake is that direction. The bookstore Ryan likes is six blocks away. Fragile is four blocks beyond it, so if you ever need another glass sculpture commissioned to emotionally destabilize someone, the commute is excellent. There’s a coffee shop downstairs, a bakery around the corner, and a restaurant two blocks over that stays open late enough to prevent Ryan from serving you that twice-dead chicken.”

“He seasons food.”

“He owns salt. That isn’t the same thing.”

I laugh while Briggs walks backward through the room, watching to make certain I’m following.

“Milwaukee also provides a highly desirable social package,” he continues. “Several Inferno wives, a handful of girlfriends, teammates who understand boundaries when threatened appropriately, and me.”

“You lowered the property value with the final amenity.”

“I haven’t shown you the premium friendship package.”

“Does that include stealing my food?”

“That happens at every service level.”

He gestures toward the couch. “Ryan sits there and pretends he doesn’t like having company. The television used to be the center of the room, but I made him turn the couch.”

“You rearranged his furniture?”

“He was folding himself into that chair every night and staring out the window like a depressed gargoyle.” Briggs points toward the leather chair near the glass. “He would sit there after games when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes he read. Sometimes he wrote. Most of the time, he stared at the city until I became annoyed enough to interrupt his brooding.”

A small table beside the chair holds a lamp, several pens, and the notebook paper Ryan uses for his letters.

“He writes to me there.”