"Every day," she repeated.
On the drive home the sky did that same muted orange again. Reggie hated it for being beautiful. He hated it for being ordinary. Maple Court looked like a place where nothing worse than overdue library books ever happened. He parked. He sat in the truck until the dashboard clock forced him out.
***
Sondra had packed a bag.
It sat by the front door, a soft duffel, unzipped enough that he could see the grey sweater folded on top. She stood beside it with her arms crossed, not dramatic, just present.
"I'm going to my cousin's for a few nights," she said. "Nia said I could. I think you need the house without me in it, and I think I need to not perform remorse in every room while you're trying to breathe."
Reggie looked at the bag. Something small and true moved in his chest—not relief exactly, not victory. Recognition. This was what an ending looked like when nobody was ready to name it an ending.
"You taking Scout?" he asked.
She shook her head. Her eyes shone. "He's steadier with you right now. He chose the couch. I noticed."
Reggie swallowed. "When are you coming back?"
"Sunday. Unless you text me not to. Then we'll figure out the next thing."
He nodded. He did not hug her. He did not tell her it would be all right. He picked up the duffel's strap and carried it to her car because his hands needed a task and because some habits of care did not die on schedule.
At the curb she paused. "For what it's worth—Evelyn. I'll talk to her if you want. Or I won't. Your call."
"Leave it," Reggie said. "She already knows enough."
Sondra got in the car. Scout stood beside Reggie on the lawn, leash trailing from Reggie's left hand, and watched the taillights until they turned the corner and became nothing.
The house behind them felt larger. Reggie went inside and stood in the hallway where Franklin's silhouette had been. He turned on every light. He opened a window. He fed Scout. He sat on the couch with a plate of leftover rice and did not taste it.