“He walks out every evening at six thirty on the dot,” I said.

“Uncle John hasn’t lived on Maple Street for four years, Penelope,” Clara said gently.

“So why wouldn’t Bob let you drop off one casserole for an old man who isn’t even there?”

By six o’clock I’d set two woven place mats on the dining room table, along with baked pork chops, wild rice, and a dish of steamed carrots.

Bob came in through the back porch at a quarter past six and hung his jacket on the hall peg without a word.

He took his seat at the head of the table and unrolled his cloth napkin.