The next message is from Marvelous, calling to remind me to bring her a recipe tomorrow, one I’d told her about last time I saw her. I found it in a magazine—it’s very easy, an all-in-one-pot chicken and rice and exotic spice thing that’s very good. I made it and ate it every night for a week, which is what I always do when I make things that “serve six.”

The third message is from Grace. She’d been crying, it sounded like. “He slept way too long today. I know he’s got something bad. I must of did something. There’s no fever, though, so does that mean he can’t be sick? Can you call me?” A pause. “I wish you were there, you’re not there, are you? … Okay, good-bye.”

I call Grace back, and she says, “Oh, my God, I’m sorry. He’s, like, fine now. I guess he was just sleepy. I would have called you back, but I forgot.”

“It’s okay.”

“But are you still coming tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Does it hurt him to watch TV with me? It wasn’t violent, just a Frasier rerun.”

“No, that won’t hurt him.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You know a lot, Grace. You just need to learn to trust yourself.”

“Yeah, I guess. Oh, one other thing. I gave him some beer in his bottle, but I way diluted it with water. That’s okay, right?”

There is a long moment while I think of where to begin, but then Grace says, “Just kidding.” And then, “Myra?”

“Very funny, Grace. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I go into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, contemplate the contents. I finished the last “serves six” thing I made last night. I take the lid off a carton of strawberry yogurt, smell it, put it out on the counter. Then I pull out the three shortbread cookies I have left, take them and the yogurt over to the kitchen table, and sit down. I like to eat the yogurt using the cookie as a spoon.

After I finish, I go back to the refrigerator and look around some more. I take out some goat cheese, get sesame crackers from the cupboard, and eat crackers and cheese standing over the sink. Then I make a little salad, which I dress with a very nice vinaigrette. I eat the salad in the living room while I watch the weather report for tomorrow. Eighty-two and dry.

After my salad, I look in the refrigerator once more, eat a strawberry. Then I take the Ben and Jerry’s Heath Bar ice cream out of the freezer and have a few tablespoons of that from the carton while I load the dishwasher with detergent and start it. It’s not very full, but it’s been four days.

And now, the evening. Spread out before me, as they say.