She has the good chair.”

“She has one red plastic chair and a cushion my father cut to fit it.”

“That’s the chair.”

He hung the towel on the hook, and this time he hung it straight.

At six thirty the light came in low across Martha’s yard and turned the oak trunks copper.

Martha sat in the red chair with a plate balanced on the arm, telling Rachel about the bulbs and the squirrels and getting the two stories mixed together in a way that suited her.

Rachel listened with the cap of her silver pen between her fingers and didn’t correct a word of it.