“I’ll keep in touch.”

He stepped back, everyone waved. He went back in the quiet house where Jasper already curled up in his first morning nap.

“Going in early today, pal, and you’re going with me. Then you’re going to have a little vacation at Bick’s.”

Raylan’s friend and partner had already agreed to take the dog for however long it took. All Raylan had to do was load up Jasper’s food, his bed, his treats, his toys.

Amazing, Raylan thought, just how much stuff accumulated for a half-grown Lab retriever.

He grabbed a hoodie to put on over his No One T-shirt, the character who’d helped launch Triquetra.

Every day was casual Friday at Triquetra.

He grabbed the messenger bag he used as a briefcase, clipped the leash on the thrilled dog. Normally, especially on a sunny spring day, he’d have walked or biked the ten blocks to the old warehouse where Triquetra had its offices, but he intended to pack up more work in case he extended his stay in Traveler’s Creek.

So he opened the rear door of his aging Prius for Jasper.

Behind the wheel, he opened the windows so the air blew in and the dog could stick his head out.

On the drive he filled his head with tasks that needed doing now if he ended up working remotely for a week or two.

They could teleconference meetings and sessions. Any work he needed to see and approve could be sent via email attachment. He could certainly set up a temporary work space in his old bedroom, and meet his deadline—ten days off—for completion of the coloring of his latest No One graphic novel.

Since he was ahead of schedule there, he reminded himself, no problem. Normally he did his own lettering, but since neither of his partners did, they had artists on staff for that. He could, just this once, turn that over if he needed to.

He’d face that one when the time came.

He pulled into the little side parking lot of the square, five-story brick building with its long, tall windows, ancient loading dock, wide steel doors, and the rooftop where they had after-work parties in the summer, the occasional shouting match meeting, or smoke breaks for those who indulged.

Before he went inside, Raylan walked the dog around to the scrubby bushes and grass at the end of the lot. Let him sniff around, let him do what dogs did outside so he wouldn’t screw up and do what dogs shouldn’t do inside.

He got his keys, unlocked the heavy steel door, turned off the alarm system.

Hit the lights.

All five stories stood open, joined together by open steel steps and a couple of freight elevators.

They’d set up the main level as a kind of massive game room/snack area/lounge.

Two of the three partners were guys, after all. And Bick was the next best thing. A woman who got it.

Cast-off furniture—lumpy sofas, worn plaid recliners, milk crate tables—made up the lounge. They talked about replacing it now that they could actually afford it. But sentiment won out whenever it was brought up.

They had sprung for two of the biggest flat-screen TVs money could buy, several gaming systems, some classic pinball machines (that needed almost constant repair), some old video arcade games.

They’d all agreed sometimes the mind and body needed to play, to let ideas just simmer. And that one day, some of the games would be their own.

They’d seen that end fulfilled with No One, with Violet Queen and Snow Raven.

More would come. Raylan believed it because they did what they loved, and what they loved they did well. And every new hire had to hit those two marks.

Because he had the dog, he took the freight elevator rather than the stairs. Jasper leaned hard against him and shivered as the car moaned and groaned up to the fifth floor.

He’d taken the top level for his office and work space because nobody else wanted to climb that high on a regular basis.

Most of the work, the activity, the noise spread below. He didn’t mind the echoes of it all; in fact, he enjoyed them. But he liked the more solitary space, and the view from the big windows.

He could see to the river, to the south skyline of Manhattan.

Since No One fought crime in the city, and his alter ego, Cameron Quincy, worked there as a computer tech, Raylan often sketched the skyline in its varying moods for inspiration.

But now he could only think someone he loved was no longer in the world. The regret he hadn’t gone home in weeks, hadn’t seen her, talked to her.

And now, never would.

Life got busy, sure, and he accepted that. But they had to make more time. His sister had a son not quite two, and he’d only seen him once since Christmas.

He hadn’t given his mother enough time with his kids, or them with her. They’d fix that.

And Dom … Would he be alone now in that big house? He’d make an effort, a real effort to give back time to those who’d given him theirs.

Because time mattered, he sat at his drawing table while the dog sniffed around the space with its pair of squeaky rolling chairs, the old dorm fridge full of Coke and Gatorade, the enormous board where he pinned sketches and notes, story lines, the mirror where he tested out facial expressions. The framed photos of his family. Action figures, the potted ficus he was slowly killing.

He had the two-page spread with its completed captions on his workstation, with some of it already inked. He’d written, revised, altered, completed the story line, done the same with all the sketches.

He could do the work digitally, but he preferred by hand. Just as he preferred doing his own inking and coloring. He understood that might have to change as the company grew, but he’d hold on to the pleasure of it as long as he could.

While Jasper settled down with his chew bone and pet stuffed kitten, Raylan picked up his tools. And lost himself in the work.

One part of his brain heard the workday begin for the others, the voices that rose up the open stairs, the clanging as people climbed them. The smell of coffee and someone’s burnt bagel.

But No One was in a fix, as the girl he had a crush on was currently being lured into danger by the seductive villain, Mr. Suave.

So he sat, worked, perfected, bringing the panels to life with the sunlight streaming through the windows.

His dark blond hair tumbled over his ears. Lorilee would say he needed a haircut, but she liked to play with it when they were curled in bed together. He’d forgotten to shave that morning with his mind elsewhere so the twenty-four-hour scruff covered hollow cheeks.

His eyes stayed intense, focused, though his lips began to curve as he watched his signature character take on depth.

He didn’t pay much attention when he heard the rapid clang of someone running up the stairs, but Jasper whoofed and scrambled up.

He glanced over at Bick, her long, red-tipped dreads flying.

“Hey, Bick, appreciate you taking Jasper. I’m going to finish up the—”

“Raylan.” Her voice cracked before she sucked in a shaky breath. “There’s an active shooter at the high school. Lorilee’s school.”

For an instant, his mind just went numb. “What?”

“Jojo had the TV going in the lounge, and the bulletin just came on. The school’s locked down. A kid got out. He’s saying there were at least two, at least two shooting people. Raylan—”

He was already up, sprinting for the doorway. Jasper tried to race after him, but Bick caught him, held him. “No, you have to stay.”