The minute he opened his bag of seed, a high-pitched shriek would cut the air, a shrill announcement to any bird within range that there were treats in store. He liked that about birds, their willingness to share. He broadcast seeds in the area around him. He left a trail of seeds across the shoulders of his sport coat. The birds descended in a cloud, their wings batting and fluttering. They settled on him as though he were a tree, talons digging into the sleeves of his coat. They clustered on his lap, some flapping off and then on again. They ate from his outstretched hand. They pecked at the seeds he sprinkled in his hair. If children passed while the birds were feeding, they’d stare at Pete transfixed, recognizing the special magic known only to persons of a certain type. To the children, he must look like a scarecrow; tall and rangy and lean, crooked teeth, crooked smile, and fingers as long as sticks. He attracted birds from across the lagoon as though the wind had blown them into a darkened spiral, whirling around his head before they alighted.

Fondly, he shooed them away, smiling to himself. He folded over the neck of the bag of birdseed and secured it with a rubber band. He glanced at his watch. The lunch hour was coming up and he’d promised Ruthie he’d be home. She’d been doing private-duty nursing, working as needed, which seemed to be all the time, but she was off today.

Home again in the kitchen, he felt at peace. She made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. He sat down at the kitchen table, watching her flip the two sandwiches until both sides were brown. She was unusually quiet as she ladled soup into two bowls, removed the sandwiches to a cutting board, and sliced them on the diagonal before she slid them onto the plates. It wasn’t until she sat down that she glanced at him with what he thought was a touch of guilt.

She was looking worn. Her complexion was still clear, but her coloring had faded and a series of fine lines now radiated from the outer corners of her eyes. Her jawline had softened and now looked more touchable. Her beautiful long blond-gray hair was pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“You had a phone call,” she said. “A man named Barnaby from Ajax Financial Recovery.”

“Collection agency,” Pete said. “The guy’s been bugging me for weeks. I can’t think why he’d call here when I just sent off a check. I told him it was in the mail, but he wouldn’t back off. He’s the kind of fellow can’t admit he made a mistake.”

“He said the account had been turned over to him because payment was overdue by six months. With late fees and charges, the total’s six hundred dollars.”