The bus was idling, the door open to a better-lit night. “It’s Acrewood, isn’t it?” Frank said. Drowsily, she roused herself. Her breath was sour and something was aching after being suspended awkwardly for an hour. “You owe me a return ticket,” Frank said. “And laundry services. And a new hip.” ...
At last, he rose, the hour too early for light even in summer, and sat at her silver-leafed kitchen table, his hands clasped—a guilty person. He tried to reason through his options, but even though, restless in bed, he could think of nothing but sitting across from Otto, their conversation writin...