In the morning, I come downstairs early, go into the kitchen to start coffee, and find Chip sitting at the tiny breakfast table. “Hey,” I say. “Good morning.” I am embarrassed. Bad enough that he saw me last night in my pajamas. Now there’s my mussed up hair, my ancient bathrobe, my morning breath, and my slippers. They are Bill and Hillary Clinton, a gift from one of my patients a few Christmases ago.

“Good morning.” He shoves a piece of paper in his pocket. He’s wearing a light blue T-shirt with his jeans, and his long legs are stretched out before him, his bare feet crossed at the ankle. There are deep circles under his eyes.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“Yeah, I never went back to sleep. Did you?”

“I did.” I reach up into the cupboard. “Want some French roast?”

“That would be great. I was going to make some for all of us, but I couldn’t … I didn’t know how to use your coffeemaker.”

“Yeah, they’re all different,” I say, though my coffeemaker, the rough equivalent of those provided to hotel guests, couldn’t be easier to use. I measure out the coffee, pour in the water, flick the switch. Then I join him at the table.

“Who are you seeing today?” he asks.

“Let’s see. Friday. First Rose, then … Well, actually everybody.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“Of course not.”

“I can take Frank for little walks while you go in and see people.”

“Why don’t we just leave him here with Diann? He loves her.”

Chip leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head. His new growth is crew-cut length; if he’d even out his hairdo, he could stop wearing the kerchief. But he seems attached to it.

“You know what, Myra? You look pretty good in the morning.”

“Oh, God.” I go over to check the coffeepot, to see if it’s ready to give up a cup. Half a cup.

“I like your robe.”

I stare down at my battered red plaid. “Well. Thank you.”

“And your slippers, too … Who is that?”

“The Clintons.”

“Great.”

I reach up into the cupboard, take down two cups, hear the shower turn on upstairs, and take down a third. With a kind of edgy pleasure. Family, I’m thinking.

And now I hear Frank’s tags jingling as he comes down the steps. He comes into the kitchen and greets us, snorting and smiling. He puts his head in Chip’s lap and stands there, lazily wagging his tail. Chip pets him and I watch those long, slow strokes.

• • •