“Tell me what’s going on, Ben!” I repeated my demand for the umpteenth time.

“GODDAMMIT, ROWAN! I CAN’T!” he shouted then suddenly slammed the heel of his fist hard against the doorframe before repeating in a near whisper, “I just…can’t.”

Whether we were getting somewhere or not, I couldn’t say, but this was the first time he had given me a response other than “you know” or “read the warrants.”

My friend looked over his shoulder through the glass of the storm door as it slowly worked its way toward obscuring the view by fogging over with condensation. After a second he looked back at me and muttered, “Jeezus fuckin’ Christ, Row…don’tcha think I wanna tell ya’?”

I didn’t let up. “You sure as hell aren’t acting like it.”

“Sonofabitch! Dammit…I…Jeez…I…It’s…Shit! Fuck me! Dammit, Row, I just can’t!” He stuttered through the sentence as his morose tone ramped back into anger.

Mine, however, had never ramped down. “That’s not good enough!”

“Well it’s gonna hafta be for now!”

Ben Storm was probably my second best friend walking the face of the planet-period, end of story. However, at this instant I was within a hair’s breadth of planting my fist square on his chin replete with every last speck of strength, anger, and unfettered malice I could muster. Never mind the fact that it would probably be the one and only shot I would get before he pummeled me into the middle of next month, or even that he was a cop with a gun and a similarly armed partner sitting in a vehicle in my driveway. Right now, none of that mattered to me.

What did matter, more than anything, was what had brought the two of us to the brink of a violent, physical confrontation such as this. And, that, beyond any shadow of a doubt, would be my best friend. Not my second best friend, but my first, and absolute, best friend-a petite, redheaded, Irish-American woman whose name was typed prominently upon the warrants.