“The truck,” he said.

“Keep it.

The belt still squeals.

Get that fixed.”

He stood there with his hands hanging at his sides, and I got in my car and shut the door.

The rehab wing smelled of lemon floor polish and somebody’s microwave popcorn.

Margaret was propped up with a paperback against her knee and her reading glasses sliding down her nose.

“You look lighter,” she said.