“You have business here?”Her hair is crinkly grayand her skin is grayer.“I am a friend …” I nod toward Peter’s home.“Well, a friend is what they’re needing, that’s for sure.”“Oh?”“Hard times”—she nods her gray head—“I been helping what I could,but I got my own houseful.”“I am sure they are grateful,” I say, not sure at all.Not sure of anything.“Well, you best get to it, then.” The woman jabs a thumbin the direction of Peter’s house,and I take those last stepsinto my new life.A garden grew here once,a tiny parterrein the square that would be a yard.The center has somethingthat was once a sundial,stoneand iron.Flower boxes overflow with weeds.A woman lived here once,but a long time ago.I knock. Knock again.The only answer is coughing.Fear of imposingis overtaken by concernand I try the door.My eyes adjust to the dimness.The air is dampand smells of sickness.Coughingand moaningcome from the bedroom straight ahead,punctuated by drippingin the open doorway.Someone in the bed.“Peter?”It takes an eternityto cross the main room.“Peter?”The face is not his.An older man,subtly familiar.Peter’s father.He squints at me.
