“They won’t work for nothing.”

“They’ll work for coffee and a chair that doesn’t wobble.”

The porch light snapped on over our heads and drew a moth against the glass.

Irene stood and brushed off her skirt.

“I kept a page behind that register,” she said.

“Thirty-four years of names on it.

Every kid I ever covered.”

She said it the way you’d mention where you’d set your glasses down, and then she went down the steps to her car.