Not one page, not a corner of a page.”

Frank pulled into the driveway at two with a box of groceries in the truck bed and a rotisserie chicken riding up front on the passenger seat.

“You’re eating this chicken,” he said, “because I’m not driving out here twice in one week to find you living on coffee.”

I took the box and he took the chicken, and we set them both on the porch rail.

Claire came out and stood with her back against the doorframe, and Frank held the chicken out to her like a man handing over a trophy.