Ordinary Wolves

The bookstore clerk had arranged them in a pyramid—twelve copies of Ordinary Wolves: A Son's Memoir, Tobias's face on each cover looking younger than sixty, backlit by what must have been a studio sun. Anders stood in the doorway at 3:17 PM, briefcase still in hand, watching students flow around the display like water around a stone.

He'd known about the book. Tobias had mentioned it last Christmas, voice bright with the particular excitement he brought to new projects. "Just some memories, Andy. The old days." Anders had nodded, poured more coffee, changed the subject to Signe's sister in Duluth.

But he hadn't expected the pyramid. Hadn't expected the cardboard cutout of Tobias holding a copy, or the banner reading "LOCAL AUTHOR—PROFESSOR TOBIAS GARVEY." Hadn't expected his own feet to carry him forward, his hand to reach for the top copy, his fingers to open it.

For my father, who taught me that gentleness is not weakness, that a man can sing while he works, that love sounds like Norwegian lullabies in a warm kitchen.

Anders read it twice. The words didn't change.

The bookstore smelled like new paper and the cinnamon candles the clerk burned despite fire code violations. A radiator clanked somewhere behind the poetry section. Anders turned to the first chapter, still standing, briefcase cutting into his palm.

I was four when he died, but I remember everything. His hands—accountant's hands, precise and clean—braiding my mother's hair at the kitchen table. The way he'd hum "Jeg Lagde Meg Så Silde" while washing dishes, soap bubbles catching light from the window over the sink. How he'd let me stand on his shoes while he waltzed my mother around the living room, all three of us laughing.

"Professor Garvey? Are you buying that?"

The clerk—Emma? Emily—stood behind the register, smiling. Anders realized he'd been standing motionless for several minutes, the book open in his hands like a hymnal.