The muffins were dark with cinnamon and sticky with warm sugar. I ate three of them, sitting at the kitchen table while Mrs. Willard watched approvingly. “Don’t suppose you usually eat a decent breakfast,” she said. “That instant stuff, or dry cereal. That’s just like grass. No body to it.” “If I ate like this every morning, I’d gain five pounds a week,” I mumbled, through my third muffin. “It might be worth it, at that…. Where is everybody? Am I late or early?” “Ran already had breakfast. He’s in the library; said he had some work to do this morning.” “What about Mary?” Mrs. Willard turned away to wipe an already immaculate counter top. “I take hers up to her. She doesn’t sleep too good.” “I know.” Mrs. Willard turned. Her pink face was impassive, but from the cloth in her hand a small trickle of water dripped down onto the spotless floor.
