She’s the one who has to live here.”

“I grew up in this house, Richard.”

“And you’ve got an apartment and a government paycheck and no kids.” He opened the driver’s door.

“Somebody has to be practical.”

He backed out slowly, and the rear tires sagged under the weight.

I drove home with the Rockport mug in my lap.

Marcus Thorne came by at seven with a box of my father’s books and a paper bag of coffee.

He set the box on my kitchen counter, hung his coat over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves, which is how I knew he meant to stay for a while.