PICKLES

Break Room hadn’t changed in years—same mismatched tables, same low lighting, same playlist full of soul singers who sounded recently heartbroken.

Except now there was a parrot.

A real one.

What the hell?

It sat on a driftwood perch near the espresso machine. Less than twenty feet away. Bright red, yellow, and blue. And a face of disdain and judgment.

Reed blinked. The bird blinked back—slowly.

A parrot? Since when?

He slid out of his booth and stepped closer. The bird arched its back and began flapping its wings.

Reed flinched and took a step back. “Nico! Is this yours? Or did someone forget their emotional support parrot?”

The bartender emerged from the back carrying a crate of lemons as if it had offended him. Nico was tall, all elbows and collarbones, wearing a black T-shirt that read: Don’t Talk to Me Unless You’re Crying.

“Don’t touch him,” he said without looking up.

“I wasn’t going to touch him,” Reed said. “I was going to ask if we’re serving poultry now.”

Nico dumped the lemons and finally approached. “His name’s Pickles … or something stupid like that. He came with the espresso machine.”

Reed stared. “Sorry. What?”

“Marcy bought the machine off a guy in Yachats. Asked me to drive down and get it. Took forever to unbolt. This fucking bird was just there—sitting on it like he owned it. Like he’d financed it. The guy said it came with the espresso machine. No extra charge.”

“You kept him?”

“Didn’t have the heart to throw it out the window on the drive home.” Nico shrugged. “He’s union now.”

“And Marcy’s okay with this?” Reed asked.

“Guess so. It’s been here for three days now.”

Pickles shrieked from his perch: “Whaaap! Whore! Chit-chit-chit. Yeah.”

Reed recoiled slightly—just enough to knock his knee into the table. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Nico said. “That one’s new. He says a lotta shit. Brace yourself.”

Reed slowly approached the booth in the back—his usual. The fake leather squealed as he sat.

Pickles tracked him the entire way.

“He always this friendly?” Reed asked, loosening his scarf.

“He likes you,” Nico deadpanned. “He hasn’t thrown up yet.”

Reed gave the parrot a cautious nod. Pickles stared back with the intensity of a thing that had definitely witnessed at least one murder.

“Usual?” Nico asked, wiping a glass that had no reason to be wiped.

Reed nodded. “And something for courage.”

“Chili’s still on special,” Nico said, with the tone of a man disclaiming liability.

From across the room, Pickles shrieked: “Awwk! Going to hell. Screee! He’s going to hell now!”

Pickles flapped its wings again, but Nico didn’t flinch. “Ignore him. He had some chili earlier. I think he’s mad at me.”

Reed smiled faintly. “Double whiskey, neat. And yeah—chili. God help me.”

He pulled out the flip phone and checked the time again. 6:44. The hinge squeaked—loud, dry, unmistakably geriatric.

She’d be here soon. He had time for one drink.

No idea what she looked like. Just the tone of her texts—measured, edging toward collapse.

A gentle chime from the entrance broke the silence. Marcy strolled in like she owned the lease on gravity—and was late on the paperwork out of spite—faded jeans, motorcycle boots, and a black tank-top that read Support Local Mistakes. Her eyeliner was yesterday’s and perfect. A mass of copper-blonde curls bounced around her shoulders as she carried a bakery box and a too-large purse slung with casual defiance.

She clocked Reed in the booth and headed toward the bar, all sharp angles and faint cinnamon.

Nico nodded at her and said, “Mister Back-Booth finds the bird troublesome.”

Marcy stopped, leaned on the bar and cocked an eyebrow at Reed.

He pretended to sip his drink, eyeing her over the glass. The moment stretched, becoming uncomfortable. Pickles crab-walked sideways along its perch, watching Reed and wagging its head back and forth.

Marcy took a step toward the booth.

“Rawk! Chit-chit-chit. Angelica left him! Wawk! Yeah baby.”

Reed put his glass down as Marcy approached. “Geez. Who’s Angelica?”

“Dunno. He keeps saying crap like that. And someone named Dak touched his nuggets.”

“Wait. What?”

Marcy slid into the booth, elbows on the table. “The bird. Someone touched his nuggets. And some bitch left someone who lived across the hall.”

“Any ideas?” Reed asked. “Maybe a previous owner?”

“Who the hell knows? You got a problem with my parrot?”

“No,” he said. “Well, I mean. I don’t know. We just met. Is it dangerous?”

“No idea,” she said. “But it’s the most colorful thing I’ve ever had in this place since I bought it fifteen years ago. I think it gives the place character.”

Reed raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”