A promise to speak to his grandmother later.
I stepped farther inside.
“Is your grandmother home?”
“She was when I left for school.”
“Does she usually meet you outside?”
“Sometimes hb.”
“But this isn’t what I wanted to show you.”
His words made me stop.
On the wall beside the kitchen hung a calendar from the previous year. Every square had been crossed out in blue ink except October 14.
That date had been circled three times.
He closed the door behind us and lowered his voice.
Beneath the calendar sat a small table covered with unopened mail. Several envelopes had red notices printed across them. Others appeared to be birthday cards that had never been mailed.
Silas walked past them.
“Back here.”
He led me through the kitchen, stepping sideways between a chair piled with blankets and a stack of empty canning jars. The refrigerator hummed. A kettle sat on the stove, and two clean cups rested beside it.
