“Then you go at one,” she said.

“And bring the checkbook.”

She picked up the orange and began peeling it in one long strip with her thumbnail, the way she always had, and laid the peel on the nightstand like a tiny spiral staircase.

I sat on the edge of the mattress in my work clothes with my face buried in my hands.

Next to me the phone lit up and stayed lit.

Thomas Bellamy.