Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

No one had signed in to see John Vance in more than three years.

Bob’s name didn’t appear on a single page of that book.

I walked down the long linoleum hallway until I came to the painted white door marked fourteen.

Uncle John sat in a high-backed vinyl armchair by the radiator, fitting two wooden puzzle pieces together on a tray table.

His shaky hands came to rest flat on his knees when he heard my shoes stop at the doorway.

“Penelope,” he said, pausing a long while between the words.