One of Mickey’s crew, Jerry, was in the throes of an ugly divorce that included an ugly custody battle. His attorney’s fees were out the roof.

“Right,” I said, snatching up a pen and sliding a pad of Post-its my way. “Give me the hours. I’ll run another payroll and he’ll have two deposits, the second one is the overtime. But he needs to give you the timesheet to bring home tonight so I can have it on file.”

“Will do,” he replied and gave me the hours. I wrote them down while he asked, “Your day been good?”

I looked to the frame and the picture sitting beside it, ready to be inserted.

Then I looked to the shelves.

There were DVDs, CDs, books, picture frames and knickknacks in them. There were a lot of shelves and they were new so they were far from filled. But I figured when Mickey and his kids moved in, that would happen easily.

All of them had something in them, though.

But one of them had only one thing.

A broken, black, folded up umbrella.

My heart squeezed.

“No,” I answered Mickey’s question.

“What’s up?”

I looked away from the umbrella.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. “We’ll talk when you get home.”

His voice dipped when he repeated, “What’s up, baby?”

He heard it in my voice even if I was trying to hide it. He read it. Now he was worried.

I dropped my eyes to the picture on the desk and reached out a hand to touch it with my finger.

“Amy?” Mickey called.

“Mr. Dennison passed this morning,” I whispered, my voice suddenly clogged.

“Fuck, Amy,” Mickey whispered back.

I stared at the picture of Mr. Dennison and me. He was sitting in a recliner in the lounge at Dove House. I was sitting on the arm, leaned in and kissing his cheek. He was looking at the camera, smiling.

It was a selfie.

I was getting good at them.

I’d learned after Mrs. McMurphy, and now I had tons of pictures on my phone of the residents, Dela with the residents, the staff with the residents, the kids, me, even Mickey with the residents.

“Peaceful,” I said.

“That’s good,” he replied gently.

I made the noise as the tears came.

“Shit, baby,” Mickey whispered, then louder and more firm, “Comin’ to you. Got somethin’ to do, then I’ll be there. Home in an hour. I’ll run Jerry’s shit, don’t worry about. You relax. I’ll text the kids. We’ll order pizza. Quiet night at home with the family. Yeah?”

Quiet night at home with the family.

That could cure anything. Even help balm the hurt of losing Mr. Dennison.

I sniffled and agreed, “Yeah, Mickey, sounds good. But I’ll run Jerry’s thing.”

“Okay, Amy. Be home soon.”

He’d be home soon.

That, alone, could cure anything.

“All right, Mickey. See you.”