The Chair He Bought, The Dog They Tried to Take, and the Choice

comes next.”

We ate breakfast at the kitchen table because the den felt too heavy.

The kitchen still smelled faintly like Eleanor—vanilla and dish soap and something warm I could never name.

Caleb pushed a plate toward me.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said.

He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

I studied him more closely in daylight.

He wasn’t a “kid,” like my generation continue reading …