Days after the North End raid he was still grinding away on his after-action reports but that morning he kept thinking about his date, if that’s what it was. Emily Frost was getting under his skin, creeping up on him, invading his thoughts at odd times—while reading; shaving; eating cereal. He was determined to be on time. In fact, he blew into the coffee shop a few minutes early. She was there already in a booth, on her cell phone. She waved and kept talking as he sat and stripped off his overcoat. He could tell from her tone she was in doctor mode talking to a family. He tried not to eavesdrop on the content but listened to the sound and cadence of her voice. She was able to blend gravitas with warmth. It was soothing. He could use some of that. She finished up. “I’m sorry. How are you, Cyrus?” He was pleased she’d remembered their deal on first names. “Fine, Emily. Busy but fine.” “Still reading Shakespeare?” He laughed. “That’s like asking me if I’m still breathing air.”
