“Yes,” she said. “He shouldn’t be eating parking lot sandwiches in January if we have a kitchen.”
So the next day, I asked him.
I said, “Walter, do you want to come over for dinner tonight? Real dinner. Warm house. Normal chairs.”
He just stared at me.
Then his face crumpled.
He hovered by the table, taking in the kitchen.
He covered his mouth with one hand and said, “I didn’t think anybody still did that.”
I said, “Well, we do.”
He stood up slowly and hugged me. Hard.
By the time we got home, I was thinking maybe kindness could still be simple.
I brought Walter into the kitchen and said, “Sit wherever you want.”
He hovered by the table, taking in the kitchen.
Then she dropped the plate.
A minute later, Megan came out carrying a plate of pasta.
Walter reached for the back of a chair.
His sleeve pulled up.
I saw Megan’s eyes drop to the pale, hooked scar near his elbow.
Then she dropped the plate.
It shattered across the floor.
Her hands started shaking.
Sauce hit the cabinets. Pasta slid across the tile. Megan went white.
“Walter?”
Walter froze.
I said, “Megan?”
Her hands started shaking. Violently. I got to her as her knees buckled and lowered her into a chair.
