The backyard needs more work and they are still deciding between two carpets for the living room, but even if it is a work in progress, Michael is ready to be home. With no word on the cars, and pitchers and catchers a few days away, Michael proceeds with his auto claim. Market value again. The money isn’t enough for another new car, definitely not a Cadillac, but he finds a three-year-old Chrysler 300 in silver that’ll do. For Audrey, he picks out another Camry, light blue again, and a year newer than the first.

Audrey requires some cajoling—Michael assures her the new locks are strong and the alarm is loud—but after ten days with the Walshes, she finally agrees to return to their house. They drive in a caravan, both of them tentative with their new vehicles.

“Oh,” is all Audrey says when she walks in the door. She goes slowly from room to room, opening drawers, peering into closets. “Oh, oh.”

She comes back into the kitchen, where her husband is plating a rotisserie chicken he bought at the Whole Foods. He isn’t a cook, does nothing besides the grill, really, but Michael knows how to pull together a decent meal when he needs to. “There’s salad in the fridge, too.”

“You’ve done good, Mikey,” she says, and smiles. He hands her a glass of wine, no $500 French Bordeaux, but a pinot noir he knows she’ll like. She takes a sip, rolls the liquid on her tongue. “The place needed some freshening up, anyway.”

They eat outside, the moon bright. After picking the chicken clean and finishing off the bottle of wine, Michael and Audrey make love on their new bed. Some things have changed over the past five decades, but many have not—Audrey still likes it when he nibbles on her earlobe; she still coos like a dove. And Michael still thinks of swinging a bat as he thrusts. The almost-gentle warm-up swipes, then the chops with follow-through, their increasing velocity and strength. It leaves them both breathless. He waits until she is soundly asleep, her breath a slight, reassuring whistle, before he retrieves a bat and sets it next to the bed.

Michael would’ve been fine to ignore his sixty-ninth birthday, but Audrey insists. “We’ve got to celebrate the good stuff, Mikey. Besides, once the team shows up you’ll be gone morning, noon, and night.” She doesn’t point out that it has already been this way.