Red wakes to a knock at the upstairs door. Looks at the clock. 9 a.m. Overslept.

Not hard to do in the warm basement. Sitting at his desk. Only comfortable spot in his empty house. The wind tackles the upper floors. Frozen drafts wiggle through gaps in the construction. Everything leans east.

Wil's obituary lay unfolded next to him. A small bottle of corn whiskey rests beside it. Empty. The one revolver Red still has, a .45 Colt Anaconda, leans against the bottle. Loaded.

"Red? You home?" says a voice.

There's another knock. Red gets up. Climbs stairs too narrow for a submarine. Answers it. It's Gus.

"You smell like you went to bed really early or really late," Gus says.

Red looks at Gus's hands. A thermos of coffee and a box of pastries from town.

"Yeah. Guess I do," Red says.

Gus motions to come inside. Red doesn't give him space.

"Miind if I come in?" Gus says.

"Yeah, actually. Wasn't expecting visitors," Red says.

Gus holds up the box.

"This is saying I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed so hard," Gus says. Gives the pastries a shake. "Truce?"

Red's expression softens. Glances at the box's see-through lid. Crusty layers of glaze are the only things keeping the fall-apart pastries from melting in their own lard.

Forget chain bakeries. The kind exploding across the state. The real North Dakota is inside that box.

"I suppose a couple truces can't hurt," Red says. Flips open the box. Grabs a bear claw.

"That's more like it," Gus says.

Red lets him through the door. They take a seat around the kitchen table. Red pours coffee from the thermos.

"So what do we do now?" Gus says. "I'm not prodding. I'm asking."

Red leans back. Looks at the ceiling. Feels the headache of last night's liquor circle the drain of his sinuses. Can't be doing that every night. Might as well hurry things up with the revolver.

"Wait for the feds or whomever to get Wil. Let them deal with it," Red says. "I'll tell you what I'll do right now, though."

"What's that?" Gus says.

"Get something off my chest," Red says.

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