We walked together to her little white house two blocks off Main Street, where the smell of stewed apples hung in the hall.

By six we were sitting on the flowered sofa in her front room with two blue stoneware cups of tea.

Irene didn’t switch on the overhead lamp.

The gray light from the porch window fell over her lap as she put a metal tin on the coffee table.

The tin had a faded picture of red apples on the lid.

Irene lifted it off and took out one yellow sheet of legal paper.