Denise hadn’t asked why I wanted it left open, and I was grateful.

At twelve thirty my father’s sedan came up the driveway with a bakery box riding in the passenger seat.

Arthur carried it in with both hands like a christening cake.

“Your mother sent pumpkin bars.

She says Marchetti’s has gotten better than it used to be.”

“She says that every single October.”

“She does.” He put the box on the counter and stood there, his thumb working at his wedding band.

“You look tired.”