Chapter 6 - The Return to the Ridge
Thomas came down the stairs five minutes later, his shirt sleeves half-buttoned and a mug of black coffee in his hand. He looked at the leather case on the counter, then at Enzo, and finally at Clara, who was still holding the iron scraper with both hands.
"That the Boston man?" Thomas asked.
"That was one of them," Enzo said.
"They're coming back," the old baker said, setting his mug down on the flour-dusted wood. "Men like your uncle don't leave loose threads in the mountains. They burn the whole shirt."
"They won't burn this one," Enzo said. He reached into the case, his fingers closing around the cold walnut grip of the pistol. It had weight—more weight than the copper wire on his wheelchair wheel, more weight than the three pennies in his pocket. It felt right. It felt like the North End before the glass towers went up.
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"What are you going to do?" Clara asked. She had laid the scraper down, but her fingers were still curled into her palms. "You can't walk. You can barely get that chair across a doorsill without help."
"I don't need to walk," Enzo said. "I need a hill."
