Reggie rubbed his eyes. "That sounds like a speech."
"It is. I wrote three drafts at Nia's kitchen table. This was the least dishonest one."
A breath of something almost like a smile moved across his face and left. "Keep the guest room for now. We'll share the kitchen like adults who failed a test and still have to live in the school."
"Okay."
They sat with that. Scout flopped onto the cool floor vent with a groan. Outside, a mower started somewhere down the block, the suburban hymn of people who still believed grass was the main problem.
Sondra glanced at the paper bag by the door. "Is that—"
"His. Leave it on the curb if you want. Or burn it. I don't care, as long as it isn't in my laundry room."
She picked up the bag, walked it outside, and came back empty-handed. When she returned she stood near the hook where his work jacket hung.
"Can I ask one thing without it sounding like I'm managing you?" she said.
"Ask."
"Will you keep walking Scout at dusk? Not for me. For you. You look more like yourself when you come back from those walks."
Reggie almost refused out of spite, then recognized the spite and set it down. "I'll walk him. I always did."
She nodded. "I'm going to unpack. I'll sleep in the guest room unless you say otherwise."
"Guest room," he said.
"Okay."
She carried the duffel down the hall. The zipper sound was small and ordinary. Reggie remained at the table with his hands flat on the wood, feeling the grain, feeling the unfinishedness of everything.