“We’re fine, Sandra,” Arthur said, his tone flat.
“I just want to make sure the budget is set,” I said.
Vance cleared his throat and looked at the wall of wrenches. “I should get back to the truck.”
By six in the evening, the kitchen had grown cold, and a gallon of milk sat on the counter, costing four dollars now and smelling slightly sour.
I spread the travel agency receipts across the table, adding the figures on a small notepad.
Forty-two hundred dollars.
It was the exact price of our cabin on Deck Seven, paid in full with no option for a refund.
“We worked too hard to let this slip away, Arthur,” I said, watching him stare at the television screen in the corner.
The local news anchor was talking about a storm system moving across the lake, but Arthur did not seem to hear.
He kept his eyes on the screen, his shoulder turned away from me.
“The tickets are non-refundable after Tuesday,” I said.
Arthur rubbed his face with both hands, his skin dry and raspy against his palms.
“The boy isn’t back,” he said.
“He has his own key under the porch if he comes home while we’re asleep,” I said.
The orange plastic chairs in the hallway of Oakhaven Hospital were cracked at the seams, showing grey foam underneath.
It was eleven past eleven when Dr. Gable walked through the double doors, his green scrubs dark with sweat at the collar.
“He was passenger in a pickup that rolled on Route Four,” the doctor said, looking directly at Arthur.
Arthur did not make a sound.
His knees seemed to give out all at once as he sank into the nearest plastic chair.
The doctor kept speaking, but his voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long hallway.
