It sounded like the saddest of sad songs with notes floating down the staircase and into the foyer like dead leaves; red, brown, and purple. I reached up over my head and covered our front door’s peephole with a finger, just in case someone was on the stoop trying to look in at us. I whispered through the door, “Who’s out there?” but didn’t hear anyone respond. I knocked twice for luck. I zigzagged my way up the stairs, tapping the wall, then walking diagonally to tap the railing slats, while stepping on the black stairs as though they were the keys to a piano. On the first landing I said, “What’s that song?” On the second landing I said, “Stop humming. You’ll get it stuck in my head.” When I made it upstairs Marjorie was not in her bedroom, but was instead lounging in the small sunroom that overlooked the front yard. She was all folded up on the puffy loveseat and fiddling with her smartphone. She wore short red shorts and a black sports bra. She stopped humming after I crash landed in the sunroom.
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