Clover was quiet when I knocked. A sour-looking Indo opened the door an inch. “What’s that?” she asked, suspiciously pointing to the baker’s bag I’d resisted overnight. “Cookies!” I said cheerfully, realizing I’d missed the smoky scent of Indo and her house. The sweets gained me entry. Indo moved around Clover with greater deliberation than I’d ever seen, as if she were carefully placing one foot before the other, lest she tip forward into some kind of oblivion. She looked thinner than usual. When she moaned as she pulled herself down before the wide table on the porch, I asked, “Are you okay?” She took a bite. Closed her eyes and chewed with careful pleasure. In contrast to Trillium’s porch, Clover’s was damp and alive, its floorboards curling in places, dirty paint peeling off as though the color were the skin a snake was shedding. The furniture, too, was unpainted and moldy, the damp wicker threatening to collapse under either of us at any moment. It occurred to me that Indo didn’t have anyone to help her.
