They looked at each other. The sliding glass doors were opening.

“Ronny,” said Mrs. Nickelsen, “there’s one of these pills I need to take with food, could you look and see? That chicken and rice is ready, I can smell it.”

After dinner Ben and his dad played nickel poker at the card table while Mrs. Nickelsen drowsed. Father and son each had a jar of nickels they kept for poker sessions with each other. They wore special poker caps—Mr. Nickelsen had a green hat with Thompson Farm and Feed on the front, Ben had a black cap with a Cowboys logo. They were role-playing, whether they knew it or not, some halfhearted saloon in which they were cowboys; father like son was still two parts boy. Mrs. Nickelsen had eaten some rice and kept it down. She closed her eyes. On the TV was some kind of crime drama, the sound very low. Nobody was paying attention to it. The boys at the card table were subdued, watching the woman on the bed.

“I’d sure like some lotion for my arms,” Mrs. Nickelsen said.

“I’ll get it, Mom.”

“In my bedroom in there, on the dresser. It’s a yellow bottle.”

“Are you going to sleep out here, Ma?” Ben asked, as she started to spread the lotion on her skin.

“No. This bed’s too high, I’d be afraid I’d fall off.”

“She wants to sleep with me,” Mr. Nickelsen said, “like always.”

“You heard your father. Can one of you help me into the bathroom? I think I’m going to put on my nightgown and go to bed.”

“How you feeling?” Ben asked.

“Not so hot. Better since I ate something. The pain is worse tonight but I took a pill and it’s easing off.”

“That’s good.”

“The doctors are going to be mad at me that I’m not drinking that milky stuff but I don’t like it. Now I know why I wasn’t eating, I just didn’t have anybody to cook for me.”

“We’re mighty thankful to you boys.” Mr. Nickelsen had been repeating this all evening, every half hour or so. “I swear. This is the first beer I have enjoyed in I don’t know when.” He had appeared to enjoy two or three before that, but Ronny took him at his word.

“I’ll be up and around a little bit tomorrow,” Mrs. Nickelsen said. “On the days I don’t have the treatment I feel better.”

“She’s telling the truth, too, son. It’s like it knocks her flat and then she gets up. She’s amazing, I tell you.”

“Are you going to help me up?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Nickelsen said. “That’s my job, ain’t it. To get you through the threshold again.”

“You made a joke, Harley.”

“I been known to. In my younger days.”

Ben stepped behind Ronny and stretched. “I’m about ready, too.” He laid his hand on Ronny’s shoulder.

“You want to say good night?”

“I doubt they’ll come back out,” he said, though just at that minute Mr. Nickelsen stepped to the door.