It was Tuesday. Crawley was between nurses—they never lasted in his company for more than a few days. It had become a game with him to see how quickly he could send them packing. A new, unsuspecting home-care victim was due that night, but since Lexie had an afternoon meeting of the 4-S Club, I figured I’d hang out with Crawley after I walked the dogs so he wouldn’t be alone. I brought him over some stuffed focaccia my dad made to go with Mom’s veau Marseille last night.

As I brought back the last of the dogs, I caught him in a rare moment. He was petting Charity, and talking to her gently, lovingly saying all those sweet, stupid things we say to pets when we think no one’s looking. He caught me watching him and abruptly stopped.

“Don’t you have some dogs to walk?”

“All done.”

“Then why are you still here? It’s not payday.”

I shrugged. “I thought I’d wait until the new nurse got here. Maybe eat some of my dad’s focaccia.”

“It’s gone.”

“You ate it all?”

“It was too good for you anyway,” he said. “You’d just wolf it down without tasting it.”

“Maybe we should call you Gluttony,” I said. At that, Gluttony came over to me, hope in his eyes.

He laughed. “Now he’s your problem.”

I decided to take a chance. I had seen a moment of tenderness rise to the surface a few moments ago. I thought that maybe I might be able to ask Crawley something and actually get a thoughtful answer.

“Do you remember him?” I asked.

“Remember who?”

“The Schwa.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because,” I told him, “I really think he’s starting to disappear.”

Crawley just stared at me coldly. I sighed.

“Forget it,” I said. “You probably think I’m an idiot.”

“That’s beside the point,” he said. Then he stood up out of his wheelchair and grabbed a cane that was leaning against the wall. I had never seen him get up from his wheelchair before. It was like watching one of those faith healings. Crawley strode toward me slowly, holding the cane tightly. He was taller than I realized. He took about five or six steps, then stopped right in front of me.

“I don’t recall his face,” Crawley said. “But I do remember him being here.”

He took one more step, and then had me help him sit on the sofa.

“I didn’t know you could walk.”

“As I said when you so rudely broke into my home two months ago, the wheelchair is only temporary.” He got himself comfortable on the sofa, and I sat in the plush chair across from him.