The next evening started normally enough to be suspicious.
Silas came home from Red Dirt at 5:42 p.m., dusty from the shoulders down, carrying a work bag, an empty lunch container, and the expression of a man who had spent the day explaining to a human coworker that “almost level” was not a real construction standard.
Gabriel stood at the kitchen counter packing shift food.
Mark sat at the island reviewing the active call board on his tablet.
Thane stood near the back windows with coffee, watching evening light filter through the trees.
Silas pushed through the back door and stopped.
“I smell chicken.”
Gabriel did not look up.
“You smell boundaries.”
Silas dropped his bag beside the bench.
“I smell chicken.”
“It is for shift.”
“I am part of the broader shift ecosystem.”
Mark said, “That is not a recognized category.”
Silas looked at him.
“It could be.”
Gabriel pointed a container lid at him.
“No.”
Thane smiled into his coffee.
Silas came farther in, claws clicking softly against the floor.
“How was the day?”
“Quiet,” Thane said.
Silas looked suspicious.
“Quiet before shift is bait.”
Gabriel nodded.
“He has learned.”
Mark checked the time.
“We need to leave in seven minutes.”
Silas opened the refrigerator.
Gabriel’s ears snapped up.
“No.”
Silas froze with one paw on the handle.
“I was looking.”
“You were hunting.”
“There is leftover pasta.”
“That is not chicken.”
“So we agree.”
Gabriel stared at him.
Silas removed the pasta container, held it up for inspection, and backed away like a suspect complying with a search warrant.
Thane set his mug in the sink.
Silas opened the pasta.
“I am also hungry and unsupervised.”
Gabriel pointed again.
“Touch the shift chicken and I will file a civil suit.”
Mark stood.
“On what cause of action?”
“Emotional poultry interference.”
Silas smiled.
“That sounds expensive.”
Thane grabbed his keys.
“Station.”
Gabriel picked up the food bag.
Mark collected his tablet.
Silas lifted the pasta container in farewell.
“Go protect the city. I will protect the leftovers.”
Gabriel stopped at the door.
“Not all of them.”
Silas looked at the container.
“Define all.”
Gabriel stared.
Thane opened the door.
“Station.”
They left before the treaty collapsed.
Day-shift handoff was ordinary.
That should have reassured everyone.
It did not.
Voss and Rusk were in the detective room when Night Shift arrived, both of them looking too relaxed for people who knew Cross Timber after dark.
Voss handed Mark two folders.
“Follow-up on the Cedar Pines fraud calls. Financial crimes has the lead. One resident got another voicemail, but staff caught it.”
Mark nodded.
“Good.”
Rusk handed Gabriel a sealed evidence envelope.
“Convenience store parking lot assault. Minor injuries. Patrol pulled footage. Suspect known. Warrant request already drafted. You only get it if he appears tonight.”
Gabriel looked at the envelope.
“I love being given problems with the phrase ‘only if.’ It means the universe heard it.”
Voss looked at Thane.
“Patrol assist board is light. Downtown has a street fair winding down, but nothing major.”
Thane nodded.
“Good.”
Crowe entered with a mug in hand.
“Do not say good like that.”
Thane looked at her.
“Like what?”
“Like you believe the city signed an agreement.”
Gabriel smiled.
“We remain optimistic despite evidence.”
Crowe looked at him.
“You remain something.”
Mercer appeared in the doorway behind her.
“Are we doing Wyoming stories again, or are we pretending to be police?”
Rusk leaned back.
“I vote Wyoming stories.”
Voss said, “Police first.”
Gabriel sighed.
“Authoritarian.”
Mercer pointed toward the board.
“Normal shift. Keep it that way.”
Mark said, “We will attempt to respond proportionally to calls for service.”
Mercer looked at Thane.
“Was that yes?”
“Yes,” Thane said.
“Good enough.”
For the first hour, Cross Timber cooperated.
Mostly.
The first patrol assist came at 7:08 p.m.
A dispute outside a taco place where two delivery drivers had both claimed the same order, one customer had tried to referee, and the manager had called police after someone suggested solving it by “parking lot combat,” which turned out to be less serious than it sounded but still loud enough to scare families eating on the patio.
Officer Boyd had the situation mostly contained when Night Shift arrived.
Gabriel looked at the two delivery drivers.
“Which one of you proposed combat?”
Both pointed at each other.
Mark reviewed the order receipts.
Thane spoke with the manager.
Boyd spoke with the customer, who mostly wanted tacos and had begun to regret existing in public.
The dispute resolved when the restaurant remade one order, the delivery app customer-service line admitted a duplicate dispatch error, and Gabriel told both drivers that if they fought over tacos, history would not treat them kindly.
No arrests.
No injuries.
One refunded order.
One free churro for the customer.
Gabriel considered that justice.
Mark considered it an incident resolved without further documentation beyond a brief assist note.
Thane considered it dinner-hour normal.
That lasted twenty-three minutes.
The radio changed at 7:41 p.m.
“Units downtown, caller reports male subject at central transit stop discussing firearm in backpack. Caller states subject is showing backpack to other people and saying he has a gun. No weapon seen yet. Subject described as black male, thirties, black hoodie, tan backpack, sitting near east shelter. Multiple civilians present.”
The Humvee was three blocks away.
Mark looked up from the tablet.
Gabriel’s posture changed.
Thane keyed the radio.
“Night Shift copies. We are nearby. Show us en route.”
Dispatch acknowledged.
Officer Serrano answered first.
“Patrol Twelve en route from Main.”
Boyd answered next.
“Patrol Seven en route.”
Then another unit.
Then another.
Downtown at dinner hour meant people.
Buses.
Cars.
Glass.
Benches.
Kids with backpacks.
Workers heading home.
Street fair cleanup three blocks away.
Too many directions for a bad decision to travel.
Mark pulled the transit stop camera map from the city system.
“Central stop has two glass shelters, east and west. Open plaza behind. Traffic north-south. Businesses on both sides. If the firearm appears, backdrop becomes poor immediately.”
Gabriel looked toward Thane.
“Crowd?”
“Move them first,” Thane said.
The radio updated.
“Serrano on scene. Visual on subject. Starting contact. Crowd nearby.”
Then Serrano again, voice calm but tighter.
“Subject acknowledges backpack. Refusing to keep hands visible. Starting evacuation of nearby civilians.”
Boyd arrived thirty seconds later.
“Patrol Seven on scene. Covering east side.”
Thane turned onto the downtown approach.
The transit stop came into view.
Two patrol units angled near the curb, lights flashing but sirens off. Serrano stood behind her driver door, one hand out, voice steady. Boyd had moved along the far side, keeping civilians back. Two more units were arriving, boxing traffic without turning the scene into a panic.
The subject sat on the bench near the east shelter.
Black hoodie.
Tan backpack at his feet.
Loose posture.
Chin lifted.
Cocky.
Not scared enough.
That worried Thane more than fear would have.
Serrano’s voice carried across the pavement.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man laughed.
“I told y’all, it’s mine.”
“No one is arguing ownership. Keep your hands visible.”
“You scared?”
“Keep your hands visible.”
The man leaned forward.
Several officers tensed.
“Subject reaching,” Boyd said over radio.
The man unzipped the backpack.
Serrano’s voice sharpened.
“Do not reach into that bag.”
He reached anyway.
Thane parked the Humvee behind the patrol line.
The man pulled out a pistol.
The scene turned into one long held breath.
Patrol weapons came up.
Commands hit from multiple angles.
“Drop the gun!”
“Put it down!”
“Do not point it!”
“Gun on the ground!”
The man stood now, pistol down near his thigh, finger position unclear from the distance. He was smiling like this was theater and he had decided he liked the lighting.
“Everybody calm down,” he said.
Serrano’s jaw set.
“Put the gun down.”
“No.”
“Put it on the ground.”
“No.”
Thane stepped out of the Humvee.
Gabriel and Mark came with him.
Mark’s eyes moved over the scene with machine precision.
“Civilians mostly clear. Two behind bus sign west side, Boyd has them moving. Northbound traffic stopped. East storefront occupied but below window line. Patrol backstop poor if he turns south.”
Gabriel’s voice was low.
“He is enjoying it.”
Thane nodded.
That was visible too.
Not mental illness alone.
Not panic alone.
Defiance.
Audience.
Power.
A man holding a pistol at a transit stop because, for the moment, everyone had to care what he did next.
Thane walked to Serrano’s position.
She glanced once and recognized the shift in available options.
“Detective.”
“What have we got?”
“Caller reported him telling people he had a gun in the backpack. We contacted. He refused hands. Pulled it out. Has not pointed directly at anyone yet, but he is refusing commands.”
“How long?”
“Two minutes with gun out. Maybe six since initial contact.”
The man shouted, “I can hear you talking about me!”
Gabriel muttered, “That is generally how proximity works.”
Serrano ignored him.
Thane looked at the pistol.
Forty-caliber Glock by shape and size.
Held loose, but not loose enough.
The man’s shoulders were up.
His eyes jumped between officers.
Too much adrenaline now.
Too much audience.
Too many guns pointed at him.
Still smiling.
But thinner.
Thane said to Serrano, “I’ll take it from here. When I have the gun settled, your team moves in and cuffs him.”
Serrano’s eyes flicked to him.
“He raises it, we have to shoot.”
“I know.”
“Thane—”
“I know.”
Boyd had moved closer behind cover.
He heard enough to say, “What do you need?”
Thane looked at the officers.
“Hold your fire unless he moves the muzzle off me toward you or civilians. I will put myself between him and your lines.”
Serrano held his gaze for one second.
Then nodded.
She keyed her shoulder mic.
“All units, Night Shift is taking contact. Hold unless muzzle swings off Detective Thane toward officers or civilians. Maintain cover. Prepare to move on his signal.”
Gabriel stepped close.
“I can talk him sideways.”
“No,” Thane said.
Gabriel looked at him.
Thane kept his eyes on the subject.
“I have this one. You and Mark chill and keep the officers safe.”
Gabriel’s ears tipped.
“Chill.”
“Relative chill.”
Mark nodded.
“We will maintain scene geometry.”
Gabriel looked offended.
“You got a better assignment phrase.”
Thane walked out from behind the patrol vehicles.
The pistol holder saw him immediately.
His eyes widened.
Not enough.
But some.
The evening light was still bright, slanting across the transit stop and flashing off patrol lights. The bus shelter glass reflected blue and red. Somewhere far behind the line, a bystander said something into a phone before Boyd moved them farther back.
Thane walked calmly across the pavement.
No vest.
No raised weapon.
No rush.
Just claws clicking once against concrete with each step and a ruined amount of patience in his shoulders.
The man raised the gun toward him.
Patrol tightened behind Thane.
Gabriel went very still.
Mark’s voice came over radio, calm and exact.
“Muzzle on Thane. No civilian backdrop.”
Thane stopped about ten feet away.
Close enough to move.
Far enough to talk.
He stood between the suspect and the officers, broad body blocking most of the line, his own chest square to the pistol.
The man’s hand shook slightly now.
Good.
Bad.
Both.
Thane looked at the gun, then at him.
“Okay. How about you put down the gun and we all relax.”
The man laughed.
It came out sharp.
“You think you’re scary?”
Thane shrugged.
“No.”
“You some kind of hero?”
“Not today.”
“Then back up.”
“No.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
Thane’s voice stayed level.
“You don’t watch the news, do you?”
“What?”
Thane nodded toward the gun.
“You’re not going to hurt me with that. If you set the gun down, one of the officers over there will come over, calmly place you under arrest, and you will be processed into jail. Who knows, you might even bond out yet tonight if you have not stacked too much stupidity on top of the gun charge.”
The man’s face flushed.
Gabriel, behind cover, whispered, “He does customer service beautifully.”
Mark said, “Do not distract.”
The man lifted his chin.
“You think you can talk to me like that?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“I got rights.”
“You do. You also have a pistol in your hand at a bus stop after refusing lawful commands. Put it down.”
The man’s smile twisted.
“What if I don’t?”
“Then this gets worse for you.”
“You ain’t bulletproof.”
Thane looked down at his own chest.
Then back up.
“Close enough for tonight.”
The man’s anger jumped.
That was the second.
Not the whole second before.
But the one before the one before.
His arm stiffened.
Patrol saw it.
Thane saw finger tension.
Mark saw muzzle line.
Gabriel saw the man’s eyes commit.
The pistol fired.
The first shot hit Thane center mass.
A hard punch.
Hot metal.
Shirt tearing.
Blood blooming.
The second shot followed almost instantly, another center-mass impact just below and left of the first.
The sound slapped the buildings and came back ugly.
Several people screamed from somewhere beyond the perimeter.
Patrol held.
Barely.
Because the muzzle stayed on Thane.
Because Thane did not fall.
The man stared.
The pistol stayed up, but his mind had stopped moving.
Thane looked down at the two holes in his shirt.
Blood spread through fabric.
The bullets pushed out of the wounds and dropped to the pavement with two small metallic ticks.
The skin closed.
Fast.
Visible.
Awful.
Normal for him.
The man’s mouth opened.
Thane looked up.
His expression had not changed much.
Only colder.
“Told you.”
The man tried to move the gun again.
Too late.
Thane advanced faster than the man’s panic could become action.
One step.
Then he was inside the pistol line.
One paw closed around the gun and the man’s hand.
Not crushing.
Controlling.
The other took the wrist.
A twist.
A release.
The pistol came free.
The man yelped.
Thane tossed the weapon behind him across the pavement.
It skidded safely toward the patrol line, where Serrano moved in and secured it.
Thane looked at the suspect.
“Like I said, you could have taken the easy way.”
The man stumbled back.
Thane did not hit him.
He did not need to.
He stepped aside, keeping one paw on the man’s shoulder just long enough to turn him away from the crowd and toward the ground.
“Now it is attempted murder of a peace officer, and you are definitely going to jail. You will not see the outside world for a very long time.”
He leaned slightly closer.
“Nice job, idiot.”
Then he released him and stepped back.
“Cuffs.”
Boyd and Serrano moved in with two other officers.
Fast.
Controlled.
Professional.
The suspect shouted.
Then cursed.
Then tried to twist.
Thane glanced once at him.
He stopped twisting.
Boyd took him down to his knees.
Serrano cuffed him.
Another officer cleared the backpack.
Mark moved to help lock down the recovered weapon and shell casings.
Gabriel stayed with the patrol line, making sure no officer had broken discipline or footing during the shots.
No one else was hurt.
No civilian hit.
No officer fired.
The suspect lived.
Angry.
Terrified now.
Alive.
Thane looked down at his shirt again.
Two holes.
Blood.
Expensive fabric ruined beyond dignity.
He sighed.
Gabriel approached from behind the patrol vehicle line with the slow walk of someone preparing commentary.
“Oh, good,” Thane said. “Here it comes.”
Gabriel looked at the shirt.
Then at Thane.
“Another shirt.”
Thane glanced down.
“Yes.”
“That one was new.”
“Yes.”
“Wyoming trip shirt?”
“No.”
“Good. I liked that one.”
Mark came over, eyes moving across Thane’s chest despite already knowing he was healed.
“Fully closed?”
“Yes.”
“No retained fragments?”
“They came out.”
Mark looked at the pavement where two deformed rounds had been marked by Serrano.
“Good.”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Small price to pay, I suppose, so everyone stays breathing. Even dumbass over there.”
Thane looked toward the suspect, now seated against a patrol bumper and yelling about lawsuits.
“Yes.”
Then he looked at the holes again.
“And here I thought everyone had seen the news footage of the past attempts to toss a few bullets into me.”
Gabriel smiled.
“Maybe he doesn’t watch broadcast TV.”
Mark looked at him.
Gabriel continued.
“Maybe he’s a Netflix guy.”
Thane laughed once.
Serrano approached, pistol secured, face controlled but pale around the edges.
“You all right?”
Thane nodded.
“Yes.”
She looked at his shirt.
“That is going in my report.”
“The shirt?”
“The part where you got shot twice and called him an idiot.”
Gabriel lifted one claw.
“Relevant sequence.”
Boyd came over next.
He looked at Thane for a long second.
Then said quietly, “Without you, that was a shooting.”
Thane’s humor faded.
He looked at Boyd.
“Maybe.”
Boyd swallowed.
“No. It was.”
Thane nodded once, accepting the truth without letting it become accusation.
“You did your job. Serrano did hers. You moved civilians. You held cover. You bought the seconds we needed.”
Boyd looked toward the suspect.
“We almost fired.”
“I know.”
Serrano’s voice was rough.
“He shot you.”
“Yes.”
“And we held.”
Thane looked at her.
“You held because you knew the line. That takes discipline.”
Serrano looked away for half a second.
Then nodded.
Mark said, “Scene still needs processing.”
That saved everyone from feeling too much in public.
Gabriel clapped his paws softly once.
“Paperwork.”
Thane sighed.
“Paperwork.”
They spent forty-two minutes on scene.
Weapon secured.
Backpack searched.
One extra magazine.
Loose ammunition.
No other firearms.
No injured civilians.
Two shell casings recovered.
Two bullets recovered from the pavement after exiting Thane.
Multiple witnesses.
Multiple statements.
Downtown traffic snarled.
Transit supervisor furious, then grateful, then furious again because buses hated drama.
The suspect’s name was Nolan Grissom.
Thirty-six.
Local.
Prior disorderly conduct.
Prior unlawful carry issue reduced two years earlier.
No active warrant.
Now facing a list that had grown dramatically because he had decided to test folklore with a Glock at a bus stop.
Attempted murder of a peace officer.
Aggravated assault.
Pointing firearm.
Carrying into prohibited transit property, pending legal review.
Reckless conduct.
Interference.
Whatever else the district attorney decided after watching patrol video and reading four statements that all said roughly the same thing:
He was told to put the gun down.
He fired.
The werewolf detective did not die.
Bad plan.
At 8:46 p.m., Night Shift returned to the station.
Thane’s shirt looked like a horror-movie prop.
Blood had dried dark down the front.
Two ragged holes sat center mass.
There was no wound beneath.
That made it worse in some ways.
The lobby clerk saw him first and froze.
Thane smiled.
“Evening.”
She stared at his chest.
“Do I need to call medical?”
“No.”
Gabriel said, “Tailor, maybe.”
Mark said, “Evidence bag first.”
They walked through the bullpen.
Conversations stopped.
Heads turned.
Someone at a desk muttered, “What the hell?”
Officer Patel leaned back from his computer, took one look, and called across the room.
“Someone make another bad decision, did they?”
Thane kept walking.
“Yeah.”
A few officers laughed cautiously.
Thane looked down at the shirt.
“Must not have seen the past attempts at this. I am getting sick of wasting so many damn shirts, though.”
The bullpen broke properly then.
Not disrespectful.
Relieved.
Patel laughed.
Serrano, coming in behind them with evidence paperwork, shook her head like she was still processing the fact that laughter was allowed after what had just happened.
Crowe stepped out of her office.
Saw the shirt.
Stopped.
Her face became command-flat.
“Thane.”
“I am fine.”
“That is not an answer to any question I asked.”
“You did not ask one.”
Gabriel whispered, “Dangerous.”
Crowe’s eyes did not leave Thane.
“Medical.”
“Healed.”
“Medical confirmation.”
Mark said, “I will document and photograph the shirt before evidence collection. Medical can visually confirm no active injury.”
Crowe looked at him.
“Do that.”
Mercer appeared behind her.
He saw the shirt and said a word that did not belong in official minutes.
Thane lifted one paw.
“Fine.”
Mercer stared.
“You are covered in blood.”
“Shirt is.”
“Do not split hairs with me while looking like a murder scene walked itself in.”
Gabriel raised one claw.
“Technically attempted murder scene.”
Mercer looked at him.
Gabriel lowered the claw.
“Not helping.”
“No.”
Crowe pointed toward the detective room.
“Document. Medical. Report. Then someone explain why dispatch told me shots fired and no officer down.”
Thane walked past her.
“Because no officer stayed down.”
Crowe closed her eyes.
Mercer muttered, “I hate when that sentence is good news.”
The report took time.
It always did.
The event lasted seconds.
The paperwork ate hours.
Mark photographed the shirt before Thane changed.
Front.
Back.
Close-ups.
Holes.
Blood pattern.
No body armor, because detectives did not wear it and werewolves could not practically use standard vests anyway.
Medical confirmed healed entry sites and no retained fragments.
The shirt went into evidence.
Thane changed into a spare department T-shirt someone found in emergency supply.
It was too small across the shoulders and said Cross Timber Police Department Community Night Out.
Gabriel took one look and nearly collapsed.
“No.”
Thane looked down.
“It works.”
“It works as a crime against fit.”
Mark said, “It is temporary.”
Gabriel pointed at the stretched logo.
“Community Night Out is fighting for its life.”
Thane sat at his desk.
“Report.”
Gabriel still smiled while sitting.
They wrote.
Serrano wrote.
Boyd wrote.
Patrol supervisors wrote.
Evidence logged.
Weapon processed.
Shell casings marked.
Witness list forwarded.
Transit video requested.
Downtown businesses asked to preserve exterior footage.
The normal machinery wrapped around the impossible thing and made it into a case.
That was what police work did.
It took chaos and made it legible enough for court.
Gabriel dictated part of his supplement.
“Detective Thane moved forward and positioned himself between suspect and officers—”
Mark interrupted.
“Use subject, not suspect, until arrest point in sequence.”
Gabriel stared.
“The man shot him.”
“After that point, suspect is appropriate.”
Gabriel looked at Thane.
“Do you see what I live with?”
Thane kept typing.
“Yes.”
Mark did not look sorry.
At 11:12 p.m., Mercer came into the detective room with coffee he did not offer anyone.
He looked at Thane’s terrible T-shirt.
“Who gave you that?”
“Supply cabinet.”
“It owes you an apology.”
Gabriel pointed.
“Thank you.”
Mercer sat on the edge of a desk.
“Serrano and Boyd are solid.”
Thane looked up.
“Yes.”
“They are both replaying the hold.”
“They held correctly.”
“I told them that.”
“Good.”
Mercer studied him.
“You doing all right?”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
Thane leaned back.
He thought about the two impacts.
The man’s face when the bullets came out.
The old danger of becoming casual about pain because he could survive it.
The newer danger of others trusting him too much because he could.
Then he thought of Serrano holding fire.
Boyd moving civilians.
Gabriel and Mark keeping the line safe.
Nolan Grissom alive and furious in booking instead of dead under a bus shelter.
“I am all right,” Thane said.
Mercer accepted that, but only halfway.
“Good. Finish the reports. Then normal patrol assist only.”
Gabriel looked at him.
“You say that like we ordered the shooting.”
Mercer pointed at him.
“I am too tired for your accuracy.”
He left.
Gabriel leaned back.
“Too tired for your accuracy is going on my wall.”
Mark said, “No.”
The rest of the evening did its best to apologize.
At midnight, they helped locate a confused older woman who had walked out of a restaurant after dinner and gone two blocks the wrong direction looking for her daughter’s car.
Gabriel found her sitting on a bench outside a closed florist, angry at the bench for not being the right bench.
Thane introduced himself.
She looked at his stretched Community Night Out shirt.
“That shirt is too small.”
Gabriel turned away.
Mark looked at the sky.
Thane smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
They returned her to her daughter.
At 1:03 a.m., they backed Serrano on a report of a man sleeping in an ATM vestibule. He was not dangerous, just exhausted and newly unhoused after a fight with his brother. Gabriel got him coffee. Mark found the overnight shelter contact. Thane stood nearby and listened more than he spoke.
At 2:11 a.m., they responded to a complaint that someone had placed a traffic cone on top of a statue outside a law office.
Gabriel called it “urban hatting.”
Mark removed the cone.
Thane did not ask questions he did not want answered.
At 3:26 a.m., they checked a closed school after an alarm tripped.
A balloon from a retirement party had drifted into a motion sensor near the cafeteria.
Gabriel stared at it.
“Again.”
Mark said, “Different balloon.”
“Same criminal type.”
Thane secured the balloon.
This one said Happy Retirement, Janice!
Gabriel saluted it.
Mark refused to document the salute.
The shift ended tired, paper-heavy, and strangely intact.
They returned to the cabin just after dawn.
The trees were gray in morning light.
The drive crunched under the Humvee tires.
Gabriel yawned so wide his jaw popped.
Mark carried the case folder inside.
Thane carried the ruined feeling of another shirt sacrificed to public safety and one spare T-shirt that had lost the battle of proportions.
Silas was in the kitchen when they came in.
Fresh work pants.
Red Dirt shirt.
Lunch bag open on the island.
Coffee in one paw.
He looked up.
Saw Thane.
Saw the too-small Community Night Out shirt stretched across his chest.
Saw the dried trace of blood that had escaped cleanup near one wrist.
His eyes narrowed.
“What happened to your shirt?”
Gabriel dropped into a chair.
“Which one?”
Silas looked from Gabriel to Thane.
“There is more than one answer?”
Mark set the folder down.
“The primary shirt was entered into evidence.”
Silas stared.
Thane walked to the coffee pot.
“Someone made a bad decision.”
Silas’s ears lifted.
“How bad?”
Gabriel said, “Forty-caliber bad.”
Silas froze.
Thane poured coffee.
“I am fine.”
Silas looked at him.
Then at Mark.
Mark nodded.
“He is fine. He was medically confirmed.”
Silas relaxed by half.
Then looked at the T-shirt again.
“That shirt is not fine.”
Gabriel pointed at him with both paws.
“Thank you.”
Thane took a drink.
Silas leaned against the island.
“Did someone not watch the news?”
Gabriel laughed.
Thane smiled despite himself.
“That was my thought.”
Silas picked up his lunch bag.
“Maybe he is a Netflix guy.”
Gabriel sat up.
“I said that.”
Silas looked at him.
“Then you were right once.”
Gabriel put a paw to his chest.
“Growth has made you cruel.”
Silas walked toward the back door.
“Do not bleed on the couch.”
“I am not bleeding.”
“Do not evidence on the couch.”
Mark said, “That is not a verb.”
Silas opened the door.
“It is now.”
He stepped out into morning, then looked back.
His eyes met Thane’s for one quieter second.
“Glad everyone stayed breathing.”
Thane nodded.
“Me too.”
Silas went to work.
The door closed.
Gabriel stood slowly.
“I am sleeping.”
Mark gathered the report folder.
“I am securing this first.”
Thane looked down at the stretched Community Night Out shirt.
Then toward the hallway.
“I am changing.”
Gabriel glanced back.
“Burn it.”
“It belongs to the department.”
“Then apologize to the department.”
Thane smiled and headed for his room.
Outside, Cross Timber woke without knowing how close one man at a bus stop had come to never waking again.
Inside, the cabin settled into morning.
Another shift done.
Another bad second caught before it became worse.
Another shirt lost.
Everyone breathing.
For Night Shift, that counted as a win.