From the outside, the Mickelson house looked the same as it had yesterday. But what might she find inside? Her steps slowed at the bottom of the driveway, but she forced herself on. Her calves strained as she climbed the hill, and she ascended the steps to the back stoop, her legs feeling heavy. She knocked on the porch door.

No answer.

Holding the plate of leftovers in one hand, she pulled open the door, slipped inside the porch, and knocked on the door to the house. She bit her lip, looked around. She hoped Mrs. Fryt hadn’t arrived home yet from the Women’s Club meeting. She tried the door. It was locked.

She knocked as loudly as she could, and waited.

Then, there came the sound of a bolt shooting out of the lock, and the door opened.

JJ was bleary-eyed, his hair mussed, on crutches, wearing a white T-shirt and blue and white striped pajama bottoms with the left leg pinned up above where a knee should have been.

She did a double take, gaping at the empty space.

He said nothing.

“It’s—afternoon!” she managed finally. “You’re not dressed!”

“Guess I had you fooled yesterday, with my fake leg,” he said. “Good party trick, huh?”

“I—I’m sorry!” she said, forcing herself to look at his face.

His mouth twisted; he shrugged. “You can come in if you want.”

As he turned from her on his crutches, her nostrils caught a whiff of the whiskey stink emanating from his skin.

“I—brought you some lunch,” she said to his back, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge her.

She followed him down the dim hallway, his crutches thonking on the dusty wood floor. His missing leg, his strange attitude—not to mention the smell of him—inspired a surge of longing for the dull, safe little bungalow. But she still had that car-wreck feeling of fascination—plus, she was determined to play her “housekeeper” part to the utmost. So she pressed on, following JJ into the living room.

The sight of it was a shock. Shards of broken glass glittered on the floor in front of the fireplace. The portraits on the mantel lay facedown. Clothes were strewn across the backs of chairs, and the sheets on the couch were twisted into ropes. JJ’s prosthesis lay at an unsettling angle under the bay window, like a casualty of war. Cigarette butts spilled over the ashtray onto the mahogany coffee table. The room stank of smoke, a desperate night, and the bourbon that had spilled on the rug.

“Oh, my,” Dolly breathed. Suspecting something and knowing it were drastically different, and now she didn’t know what to do.

“I wanted to keep you busy, I guess,” he said, like a joke, but he still had a strange grimace on his face.