and those light blue eyes—he’d gone to big-box hardware stores, buying paint and trays and rollers. Instead of thinking about what she’d said—about protecting Donny, about this godforsaken pile of bricks being some kind of “family”—he researched haul-away companies and mattress deliveries and cleaning services. Instead of thinking about how he’d felt in that basement—unsure, unbalanced, unwanted—he’d scrolled through pages of similar-sized rentals in the neighborhood, drafting three different versions of the unit description he’d post when the time came. He got invested.
And getting invested made it possible to think of her and her neighbors as an institution all on their own. An easy enemy, then. Nothing personal about it.
When he’d arrived back at the building this morning, he’d prepared himself for confrontation, half expecting that there’d be some kind of notice taped on Donny’s door. A cease-and-desist, maybe, or at least a hastily scrawled “KEEP OUT” sign. But nothing greeted him, not even the flick of curtains in the front windows as he’d walked up, a stack of flattened boxes tucked under his arm. In the hall, even the cherub sconces seemed indifferent, not that it was healthy for him to imagine otherwise. And now, inside Donny’s apartment, the silence was deafening—he couldn’t even hear footsteps in the unit above him.
Well, fine, then, a freeze-out. That made it even easier.
He started in the kitchen, because he figured that would be easy, too—he doubted he’d find anything too personal there, and he had a good list from Sally’s binder about what essentials he’d need to have for renters. He put on an emergency-medicine podcast he liked, an episode about compartment syndrome he’d been meaning to listen to, and started sorting. Keep, donate, toss.
Easy.
Until there was a knock on his door.
He almost missed it, what with the sound of pots and pans shifting and also the voice of a woman through his phone speaker describing—in great, gory detail—the right technique for a fasciotomy. But when he raised his head he heard it again, a definite knock, and also the sound of murmured, feminine voices.
The institution arrives, he thought, controlling his breathing as he stepped around various piles of junk. Don’t think of her as Nora.
When he opened the door, the doctor on the podcast was saying “infected surgical bulge” and there were two familiar faces—neither of them Nora’s—staring up at him from the threshold, each holding dishes covered in aluminum foil.
“Uh,” he said, over the podcast host’s commentary on pus color. “Let me—” He stepped back and shut it off. Whatever they were carrying smelled like bacon and carbohydrates, which meant he was getting an institution, of a sort: the Midwestern welcome and/or bereavement wagon. It didn’t look all that much like an enemy cavalry had arrived, unless there were laxatives baked into those dishes.
“Sorry about that,” he said, adding an embarrassed smile, because if this was a peacekeeping mission, he was going to turn the charm offensive back on. Easy enough, when it wasn’t Nora standing there.
“We’ve brought you some dishes!” one of the women said, the one whose hand he shook in the basement. She was wearing lipstick so bright red he could almost hear it. “I’m your upstairs neighbor, Corrine Salas, and—” She paused, nudging the woman beside her with an elbow. When that produced nothing in the way of a reaction, she spoke again. “And this is Marian Goodnight, who lives across the hall from you.” Another nudge.
“Not sure if you’ll have much of an appetite,” Mrs. Goodnight said abruptly, holding out her dish and nodding toward his phone. “If that’s the kind of thing you’re listening to.”
“That must be an occupational hazard,” said Mrs. Salas excitedly. “Nora mentioned you’re a doctor! Now if I could scoot right by you here to set this dish down. . . .”
And before he could say anything, that’s exactly what she’d done—moved past him in a cloud of perfume and chatter, her companion silently (and unscentedly) following her lead into the kitchen, pushing aside his Keep, Donate, and Toss boxes. It took a minute to realize that the two covered dishes were only the start, that each of them had also been carrying bags over their shoulders, and were now also unpacking those.
“Now these things will keep nicely,” Mrs. Salas said, not really to him, not really to anyone, so far as he could tell. Her eyes and hands were busy on the absolutely insane amount of food that was being stacked up onto Donny’s stained laminate countertops. “So I’ll