“Sometimes you have to confront the rattlesnake or the airplane or the building’s rooftop or the mother,” I said. “I can move on now.”

“Good,” he stroked some hair back behind my ear and kissed my forehead.

“Oh, and the book was rejected because it’s too short. I’m allowed to resubmit it, though.”

“Then we will fix it. I have five hours until I have to be on patrol, babe. Good thing I left a fresh uniform in your closet. Let’s get some sleep.”

I watched his profile in the darkness and waited until his breathing was deep and regular. “God, I love this man,” I whispered.

Rick’s mouth tilted ever so slightly upward. “He loves you, too,” he mumbled and threw an arm over his eyes.

The next morning I rolled over and inhaled the pillow where Rick’s head had rested, hugging it to me and trying to remember what time he said he’d be back. I had twenty-four glorious hours until I had to return to Fairfield Springs.

I found myself concentrating on Violet’s life instead of mine, an old habit.

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the Cool Kids’ Table of several years ago. Mr. Perkins had his wheelchair next to Violet, paying rapt attention to her every word. Rose Perkins didn’t live in the nursing home, and if she joined Mr. Perkins for a meal they sat at a small table near the kitchen. If she and Violet knew each other, they never showed it.

Mr. Davidson was usually laughing and making the rest of them join in. I could clearly remember his knitted sweater vests and bright bow ties. He was easily the most dapper dresser among Fairfield’s male population, and I saw more than one old woman try to divert his attention from Violet.

I wished I’d known Mr. Perkins was Johnny and Mr. Davidson was Sam. Violet never told me anything about their relationships to her until they’d both passed away. So much history, invisible to all but those three. It must have felt like there were six of them, present and former selves side by side in that place, day after day.

It was beautiful outside. The skies really are so blue in Alabama most of the time, and the weather was just cool enough to make me feel energetic. I threw on some yoga pants and a t-shirt and set out for a long walk to the nearby park. It had trails through the woods and I’d discovered nothing helped inspire me more than a silent, solitary hike. I came home pleasantly tired and feeling accomplished. The inspiration turned out to be cooking for Rick instead of writing, so I was heading to the grocery store for spaghetti ingredients and garlic bread after I got cleaned up.