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He plants a kiss on Freddie’s forehead as he passes by,
opening the door and leaning out enough to reach the mailbox at-
tached to the wall. Ira kicks the door closed behind him with his
heel, and the vacuum in the room created by the open window
causes it to swing shut with a jolting slap.
Freddie’s reaction is immediate and visceral. He crumples
in on himself, shouting a strangled sort of noise, and the only
thing Ira has time to think (even as he does, he recognizes its
absurdity) is, oh my god, Fred’s been shot.
Ira drops the mail to the floor in a flurry of paper as he
rushes over to Freddie, who’s got his head between his knees,
his hand clutching at his left shoulder.
“Freddie, Freddie, oh my god, what happened, I’m so sorry,”
Ira says in a rush, kneeling.
Freddie shudders, gasping wheezing lungfuls of air as he
rocks back and forth at the waist. It takes nearly five minutes
before Freddie calms down enough to sit up. He rubs his hand
across his face and opens his eyes. Ira’s hand brushes along
Freddie’s thigh over his slacks, though he’s not sure whom it’s
supposed to comfort.
“I don’t like loud noises,” Freddie says after a minute, lean-
ing back against the couch.
“No,” Ira says dumbly, “I —can’t imagine that you do.”

•••
“I ran into Bates at the grocer’s yesterday,” Ira says as Fred-
die hands him a few towels to add to the laundry. “He mentioned
that there’s an opening at the firm again now that Hutchins has
left. He could use you now that you’re back.”
Freddie frowns. “I still have some of my back pay in sav-
ings if you’re worried about money.”
“I was just thinking you might want to get out of the apart-
ment,” says Ira, shaking out a towel still damp from hanging on
the back of the bathroom door. “It’s been a while.” A month, Ira
thinks, since you’ve gone out for more than cigarettes.

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