he asked, not out of politeness so much as because somebody had to say something.
“If that’s okay,” she said just as quietly.
He turned on the kettle, took down two mugs—but not the one on the shelf. While the water heated, he stood at the stove with his back to her and thought about how long it had been since he’d made tea for a stranger. So long he couldn’t even remember when.
“There’s a room down the hall,” he said without turning around, nodding toward the hallway. “First door. There’s a bed. Put her down.”
“Thank you,” the woman said.
He asked nothing else. She explained nothing.
He poured the tea, set it on the table, then went into the hall and showed her the room. It was a little chilly in there; the radiator didn’t put out much heat. He’d meant to bleed it for months and never got around to it. The woman didn’t comment. She laid the little girl down, tucked the blanket around her, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Mike went back to the kitchen, drank his tea, then picked up the bottle, returned to the living room, stretched out on the couch, and finished what was left. He fell asleep fast. He was tired, and the alcohol helped. The last thing he heard before sleep took him was the soft creak of a floorboard in the hall.
She was walking around. Going somewhere. Fine.
He dreamed badly, the way he usually did. Nothing specific, not pictures exactly, more a feeling. Weight in his chest. A white hospital hallway. A doctor saying something he couldn’t make out.
He woke a few times, stared at the ceiling, fell asleep again. In the morning, a smell woke him. At first he couldn’t place it.
He lay there with his eyes closed, thinking maybe he was still dreaming. Then he opened them. The smell was still there.
Hot food. Something cooked, a little creamy—oatmeal maybe—and eggs. Fried eggs. He honestly tried to remember the last time he’d cooked anything hot and couldn’t.
A week at least, maybe two. He’d been eating bread, canned food, sometimes heating something up straight from a can. There had not been a hot breakfast in that house in a very long time.
Mike got up and shook off the last of sleep. He walked into the kitchen. Then stopped in the doorway.
The kitchen was different. Not renovated, just different. The dishes that had sat around for weeks were washed and put away. The table, which he’d stopped noticing had become gray with mug rings and crumbs, had been scrubbed clean.
The floor was swept. On the stove sat a pot of oatmeal and a skillet with eggs. The kettle was hot, just boiled.
The woman stood by the window with her back to him, looking out into the yard. Her hair was dark, pulled into a quick ponytail with a few loose strands falling out. She was still wearing the same sweater, her only clothing, but now it was dry.
On her feet were slippers. His spare slippers from the entryway. The little girl sat on a stool at the table.
Big-eyed, serious, serious in that way some children get when they’ve learned too early not to make noise. She held a mug with both hands and looked at Mike without fear but without a smile either. Just looked at him the way very small people do when they’ve already seen too much and now study everyone carefully before deciding whether they’re safe.
Mike stood in the doorway and didn’t know what to say. The woman turned around.
“Good morning,” she said calmly, not apologetic, not ingratiating, just plain. “I hope you don’t mind. I needed something to do with my hands.”
He stayed quiet another three seconds, then said:
