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I stopped and looked carefully to the left, to the right, and then to the left again. Then I eased into my turn. “What is this neighborhood called?”

“Russell Woods. Why do you keep blinking your eyes? You remind me of a turn signal light.” He used his hands to imitate me, opening and closing them. “Do you need glasses?”

“I wear contacts and this morning, I thought I saw something—I think there was something wrong with my lenses,” I answered. I had seen it in the shower and then again when I’d rinsed my breakfast dishes. At least, I thought so, but it was very faint. It easily could have been dust or steam and anyway, I wasn’t seeing it right now no matter how many times I blinked and squinted.

“Turn left. There!” He pointed insistently. “Don’t pass it.”

“Ok, ok!” I made another careful swing of the wheel. “What is this place?”

“It’s my house, where I’ve lived for the past fifty-three years,” he told me. “Stop!”

“What are we doing here?”

But he was already slamming his door and walking towards the building. I got out too, and as I did, another car pulled up and stopped in the street.

“Kat,” Oliver called when he got out of that.

“Oh,” I said, pleased. I hadn’t seen him in a while. I had thought he might have been traveling, but it could also have been that he was avoiding me after our phone number exchange. We had gone running the next day but the only way that we’d been in contact after that was from afar, as I’d watched for him through my window. I hadn’t seen him very often, though.

I was happy to see him now. “Hi,” I answered. “How are you?”

“Not bad. Are you shivering?”

I was, due to the wind that was blowing brown, crackly leaves down the residential street. “It’s so cold now, even inside the Milaflores Building. Have you noticed that?”

“Not really—”

“Why are you keeping her on the lawn? She’s shaking like one of those naked dogs, the ones with only a little tuft of fur. She’s about that size, too,” Mr. Marchand called from his porch.

“What?” I was grossly offended. “I am not like a hairless dog!” But he was already gone. “I actually have plenty of hair,” I told Oliver. “It always takes forever to get it trimmed because of the quantity.”

“I believe you,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘get your goat?’”

“Yes. Is that what your grandfather is trying to do with me?”

“It seems like he’s succeeding.”

That was true, but I was still happy to go inside where the wind wasn’t blowing. The house smelled good and the aroma was coming from Mr. Marchand’s crock pot. I had questions for him about that, since I was trying to get beyond ramen—but it was hard. It was boring with just me in the kitchen, and it was a lot of work to go through to make something only for myself. I had liked what I’d produced but I did end up with a lot of leftovers.

“Maybe there’s a little crock pot on the market,” I suggested as I leaned close and breathed in the aromas coming from this big one.

“Or maybe, you can cook for two,” Mr. Marchand suggested right back.

“Ok, Gramps. That’s enough,” Oliver said.

“I think Carmen would be happy to come down and eat with me,” I noted. “Do you have a table where we can sit?”

“Do I have a table? What do you think I am, some hairless dog?” Gramps demanded. “Come get forks and knives and you can set it.”

Oliver helped and he had also brought some bread which he sliced. I watched his hands as he did and decided that I could definitely see him playing an instrument, like strumming a guitar or deftly pressing piano keys. His grandfather was thinking along the same lines, because he mentioned that no one had touched his own piano in a while.

“After dinner, you could play for us. It’s not as nice as the other instrument that you used to have,” he added.

“Ok, Gramps,” Oliver said. His voice was sharper. “Can we leave that alone, just for tonight?”

We could, at least for a while. As we ate, Mr. Marchand told me all about his house and also shared a lot about his late wife, whom he appeared to have loved very much. He had a lot of framed pictures with the two of them and with her alone, and when he talked about her, he smiled.

“Do you remember your grandma?” he asked Oliver.