I have thought about why.

I think it was superstition — that if I said it at volume it would hear me and leave.

So I carried the stick down the hall, holding it flat on my palm like something that might spill, and I stood in the kitchen doorway, and Kevin was at the sink with his sleeves pushed up and the radio on.

And he turned round, and he looked at my face first, and then he looked at my hand.

Part Six: Half the Day in His Arms