The blanket slipped.

I tucked it back under her chin.

“I’ll take the folder,” he said.

I gave it to him.

My hand stayed on it a second longer than it needed to.

The hall was narrow and warm.

Richard, my husband of twenty-three years, sat on a bench outside courtroom three.

He wore a brown jacket too big at the collar, and his hair was flat on one side as if he had slept on it.