Did you know a man named Samuel Hayes? Frank's hand stopped on the coffee pot. For a moment, no one moved. Then he looked at Daniel again. Samuel Hayes?
Daniel nodded. He was my father. Laura looked from one man to the other. You knew his father? Frank set the pot down carefully.
We worked together. That sounds incomplete. It is. Daniel pulled the wooden box closer. My father was with the volunteer department here.
Late 80s, early 90s. Frank's eyes stayed on the box. He left. Daniel watched him. I know.
Then you know more than most people around here did. Laura frowned. Frank had told her hundreds of stories from those years. Broken hoses, bad chili at fundraisers, a raccoon trapped in the station attic. Never Samuel Hayes.
You were friends? She asked. Frank leaned back against the counter for a while. Daniel opened the wooden box. Inside lay a pocket watch darkened along one edge as if someone had held it too close to a flame.
Beneath it was a folded photograph and a sealed sheet of paper. Frank stopped looking at Daniel. Laura noticed. Daniel lifted the photograph first. Two younger men stood beside an old fire engine, both covered in soot and smiling like they had gotten away with something.
One was Frank. The other had Daniel's eyes. Laura looked at her father. You never showed me this. Frank shrugged.
I didn't show you every photograph I ever took. You showed me one of a lawn mower you owned in 1987. It was an excellent mower. Laura watched her father. Frank had spent her childhood turning department stories into family mythology.
He remembered names, dates, bad meals, broken ladders, even the dog that once slept under Engine 3. Yet Samuel Hayes had vanished. That omission felt larger than the box. Daniel seemed to understand it, too. He did not push.
He placed the photograph beside the watch and waited. Frank reached for the sugar bowl, though he drank his coffee black. Laura noticed that, too. You really knew him. Frank stirred nothing into his cup.
Yes. How well? Frank looked at Daniel then at the photograph. Well enough that I should have answered one of his calls. Daniel's eyes lifted.
Frank said no more. Daniel almost smiled. Then he picked up the folded paper. My father died 8 months ago. Frank's expression changed, not dramatically.
His shoulders simply lowered. I'm sorry. Daniel nodded once. When I cleaned out his house, I found this box in the back of a closet. He turned it around.
Burned into the underside of the lid was a message. Frank Bennett, if I never get brave enough. Laura read them twice. Frank looked away. Daniel said, "I don't know what he meant."
Frank reached for his coffee. He always liked making ordinary things dramatic. Daniel glanced at the label again. So this is hereditary. Laura looked between them.
You two are going to get along terribly. Frank ignored that. Have you eaten? Laura stared at him. Dad, what?
You just changed the subject so hard I nearly got whiplash. I asked if the man had dinner. The man brought you a 30-year-old mystery box. He can't eat that. Daniel closed the lid.