I walked closer, my shoes squeaking on the brown linoleum. When I was five feet away, Lily stopped drawing.
She raised her head. Her eyes were very dark, almost black in the gray light from the window.
She looked directly into my eyes, not with the curiosity of a child, but with a flat, measuring stare.
“Are you the new driver?” Lily asked.
“No,” I said. “My name is Caleb.”
Deirdre stood behind me, her notepad held against her chest. I knew she was waiting for me to turn around, to ask about the exit, to admit that a retired clerk with an empty house could not manage this.
I do not know what I am looking for, but I cannot walk away from her.
I watched Lily turn a page in her sketchbook, her small hand steady in the gray afternoon light.
My sister Clara arrived at ten the next morning, her work boots clashing with the quiet of my hallway. She did not say hello, but instead walked straight to the heavy brown recliner by the front window.
