At six twenty-five Bob came down the front hall in his brown suede jacket, his hair freshly combed and still damp from the bathroom sink.

I stood at the kitchen counter and lifted a hot chicken casserole out of the oven, settling it carefully into a padded cloth carrier.

“I made extra chicken and green beans tonight,” I said, setting the heavy fabric handles down on the kitchen table.

“I can ride along with you to Maple Street and keep the warm dish on my lap while you drive.”

Bob stopped short in the middle of the kitchen doorway, his hand frozen two inches from the metal key rack on the wall.