I wandered to the back to check on Jackson before I left. When I found him, he was standing in the middle of the stockroom, staring at the wall of rough wooden shelves. He didn’t look up when I walked in. “How much would you say that weighs?” he said. He’d taken off his dress shirt; it was draped over the back of Simon’s desk chair. It was probably the closest that chair had been to a dress shirt since Simon had bought it. “I have no idea.” I went to stand next to him. He reached a hand out, palm flat as though he were telling someone to stop. He closed his eyes. There was a creaking noise of complaining steel, and the whole shelf rose three inches off the concrete floor. “Holy shit,” I said. Jackson let the shelf down hard, and the bottles clashed and sang. He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Are you okay?” I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t dare.
