Mr. Nickelsen met them at the door and scratched his hairy belly under his shirt. “Come on in, boys. We’re back, we’re here. You boys have a good drive?”

Ben said, “Oh, yeah, it was fine. Easy traffic.”

Father and son made no move to acknowledge each other, no hug, no slap on the back, just a stunned awkwardness. Mr. Nickelsen, bulky and balding, scratched the scalp on the top of his head. He was looking down at the bag Ben was carrying.

“Is Mom okay?” Ben asked, pushing past him, setting the suitcase down and stretching his shoulders.

Mr. Nickelsen started to nod his head, though he was still staring downward, at nothing. He slumped a bit, as if he were barely making the effort to stand, as if he might slide to the floor at any moment. Now he had stopped scratching and held one palm across his head. Maybe he had forgotten where he was, why he was waiting at the door. “Mom’s fine. She’s laying down in the den on the hospital bed. You hadn’t seen it yet.”

“You got a bed in here?”

“The people brung it yesterday. Set it up in the den right pretty, real close to the TV. She’s saying it helps a lot. You all come on in here now. Leave your bag there, Ronny, Maylene wants to see you boys.”

As he walked, his shirt drifted open showing the stains on his tee shirt and the grizzled white hair above its neckline. His skin was grayed and full of broken capillaries. He wore a pair of black framed glasses and walked like a farmer, straddling a row. “You need anything, Ben? Anything to drink? Ronny?”

“No, Dad, we just had something.”

“I’m fine, sir,” Ronny said. “Thank you for asking.”

The den was a good-sized room lined with pine paneling, the bed set up along the inner wall of the house, the look of it stark and out of place. Mrs. Nickelsen was lying under a sheet and blanket, fringes of short white hair covering her skull, longer strands at her temple and along the base of her neck. Her eyes were dulled and heavy at first, brightening when she saw her son. A touch of color came back to her skin at the sight of him. Her thin arms lay on the sheet, the inner areas, near the elbow, covered with bandages and bruises, as were the backs of her hands.

“Hello, son,” she said, lifting a hand. “You’re back.”

He bent to her, somehow softened in all his lines. Near her he appeared to move with care, touching her arm lightly. “I brought somebody to see you.”

“Hey, is this Ronny? I remember you.”

“Hey, Mrs. Nickelsen. It’s good to see you but I don’t like seeing you like this so much.”

“We can’t help it, can we?” she asked, smiling at him. “You boys have a good drive? Did you eat?”

“We stopped down the road and got something,” Ben said. “Don’t worry.”