The scent of lamb-and-apricot stew advertises Sarkisian Senior's cooking to the entire block.

Harris inhales sweet-and-sour air, and a smile spreads over his lips. 'A happy man must know how to cook,' dad often repeats, 'and how to pick a woman who enjoys small pleasures'. A good woman, a good meal with good wine is his simple recipe for happiness. Tonight, the old rogue scores two out of these three.

Old door creaks when Harris lets himself in. "Dad, I'm home!"

Sarkisian Senior dials down the volume on the TV and wheels his chair around the kitchen counter. "So I see."

"I knew I shouldn't have munched at the station, but the paperwork was a murder." He's genuinely sorry now. There's food, and then there's this stew's aroma hanging in the house...

Dad's eyes crinkle: he knows, oh he knows! "Pah, it'll taste better tomorrow."

A stitch releases in Harris's back. Today is a good day then. "How's the new butcher's block working out for you, Dad?"

Adding a pull-out butcher-block to one of the cabinets was the latest project of his. The house is over a hundred years old, with plenty of character and salvageable wood, plus the garden with a maple tree dad planted on the day Harris was born... but wheelchair accessible it is not.

"Block's good, but the slow-cooker... not so much." Dad winks—it truly is a good day for him.

"The slow-cooker? What slow... Oh. That lady from down the street brought it over, right?" Curly hair in a messy ponytail, voice of a chain-smoker... He squints to see her clearer in his mind's eye. "She also wants the lily bulbs if I dig up the bed on the side for the new ramp."

"Her name is Lonita," dad supplies.

"That's right, Lonita."

"Please, don't tell her the slow cooker isn't good, okay?" Dad winks, inviting him into a little neighborly conspiracy.

"No worries." Honestly, there's no need to even ask. Last time Harris talked to this Lonita woman was... April-ish? "Well, at least you gave a shot to the slow cooker."

Alas, a gas stove his dad can operate comfortably is out of his price range, while an electrical one doesn't go with Sarkisian Senior's heritage copperware.

"Never again. The flavor is all wrong." Dad wheels over to the coffee table by the window, with a chessboard. Figures removed from it during their ongoing duel line up next to a wine glass. Dad takes a sip from it and throws Harris a meaningful glance. The queens and knights are awaiting.

Harris lowers himself into an armchair opposite Sarkisian Senior to assess the situation. Hmm. One move while he was out fighting fires—and dad's rooks and a knight have him cornered. He can probably draw out the inevitable for five moves or so, then he's screwed here too. Harris reaches for his bishop.

"I saw you on the news today," dad says.

Oh, a distraction tactic? Maybe his chances are better than he thinks. Harris' fingers hover over the wooden figurine, without touching it. He leans back and sighs. As much as he wants to buy time to rethink the situation on the board, the last thing he needs is to talk about the hotel fire, the girl and her angels. "So... how's the wine, dad?"

It's white wine... Hence, dad wasn't going to eat with him anyway or he would have opened a bottle of red to go with lamb.

"One step above vinegar." Sarkisian Senior accepts the change in topic with barely a grumble. "I should have gone with beer. It's what we're famous for after all."

"You and beer? I just don't see it." But the main thing, dad looks like he's not been skipping meals.

"Beer isn't that bad."

Sarkisian Senior sounds defensive, so Harris shrugs as obviously as possible. If dad came to appreciate beer at fifty, so what? He uncorks the bottle and splashes some of the berated liquid into the waiting glass. Smells it.

Spring grass and something else...

He takes a sip to find out for sure.

"Mmgh. Tangy and young, but not as bad as you've made it sound. Though if you paid over fifty bucks for it, you have been had." One day fifty bucks won't be anything to worry about again, but until then, please, let it not be another spontaneous purchase.

Dad presses his lips together, steeples his fingers, nods his gray head. He obviously thinks how Harris has everything to follow in his footsteps... and not once did he rebuke his son for choosing a different path in life.

"Speaking of being young, Harris." A twinkle sparks in dad's hazelnut eyes, exactly the same as Harris' own. "I should make a GIF out of that news clip for your Tinder profile. A heroic firefighter! You'll be swarmed."

Dammit! Some people's parents are boomers. Would that he be so lucky! Sarkisian Senior moved into YouTube realm from the get-go, transitioning from a sommelier into a restaurant blogger, then getting his own podcast, then a show on cable.

For a while, things looked so promising... If not for the accident, dad could be filming some fabulous hole-in-the-wall in Alaska even now. But the accident happened, so dad's stuck inside, filling his days the best he can. If only he did more cooking and less matchmaking!

"Dad, please... It's not funny anymore." Harris takes a deep breath. "Borderline creepy, even."

The twinkle disappears. Dad straightens in his wheelchair and points an accusing finger. "I'll stop once you settle down. Or at least call your mother. It's been two years, Harris."

"I know how long it's been."

His dad ignores the tart reply. "Two. Years."

In case annunciating the words isn't dramatic enough, Sarkisian Senior lifts two fingers.

"I can count this high, dad." Harris' chest heaves. It takes every ounce of his self-restraint not to sweep the black-and-white figurines to the floor. He fixes his gaze on dad's shriveling ankles and slippered feet idling at the footrest of the wheelchair.

He'd look at anything to avoid seeing the shadow of longing in his dad's eyes. He isn't just a paraplegic deprived of the job he loved, a wanderer who can't be on the road. He still carries the torch for the abominable woman, who's ruined his life. She isn't worth it, but it's not an argument Harris can win move by move, like a game of chess.

This is a game of hearts, and there are no rules, just secrets and backstabbing.

Harris digs deep for a lighter tone. "Are you so desperate to make me talk to women that even mom will do?"

The glass shakes in his dad's hand. "You're deflecting instead of accepting the truth once and for all. It wasn't your mother's fault. She'd filed for divorce before the accident, and I drove that day. I was driving, Harris! It's on me."

"She was sleeping with—Sleeping around!"

"Ask for a transfer, eh? It upsets you too much to work under Walter."

Walter! Like they are all good friends, Lt. Jung, dad and Harris. On the day of the accident, Walter pulled a woman from the wreck before a man. He probably would have done it by the book—save women and children first—even if he wasn't banging her... presumably. And he couldn't have known when the car would plunge down from the bridge, taking the trapped driver with it. Absolutely. He couldn't have known... but his decision cost Edik Sarkisian the use of his legs!

There hasn't been a day since when Harris doesn't wish for a do-over, an alternative universe where Jung rescues the driver first.

"My boss' name is Lt. Jung," Harris grates. "And I can't let him... can't let them take my station from me too. Then she wins."

Dad waves his phone at Harris. "Only you can start getting back what's been taken away."

Harris' bag of tricks to deal with anger and frustrations is empty. He flings his glass at the sink. It shatters against stainless steel into million sharp pieces. Just like that window shattered before Harris carried the girl out on the balcony.

"How can you defend her, dad? How? She didn't even stay in Milwaukee long enough to find out if you were out of danger!"