It tasted like the inside of a paper bag.

Thursday morning he was going out on errands, he said, and he stood in the driveway with the truck keys already in his fingers.

I stood on the step with my coffee and watched him, because I had an hour before visiting hours started and nothing to do with it.

The belt had been squealing since March.

He had a tackle box behind the seat that hadn’t moved since spring.

He got as far as the driver’s door.