“You’re going to sit on a sun deck for seven days and eat dinner at a table where nobody talks about corporate bankruptcy.”

I reached out and touched the smooth silk hem of the dress.

“Who’s going to look after Biscuit while I’m out of the state?” I asked.

“He’s sleeping on my living room rug and eating canned beef until you come home,” Lynn said.

“What time does the flight leave?” I asked.

“Seven ten on Saturday morning,” Lynn said, sliding the paper ticket sleeve toward my fingers.

By eight o’clock, steady autumn rain was drumming on the corrugated tin porch roof above the front steps.