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Lena had called her.

Of course Lena had called her.

She did not hug me at the door. Not at first. She looked at me for the length of time it took her to read me, which was the length of time it took most people to say hello. Then she put both hands on my face, pulled me down to her five-foot-three height, and kissed my forehead.

“You look like him,” she said.

“I know.”

“Not always. Today.”

She let go, turned to the coffee, and started a fresh pot without asking if I wanted one, because this was her kitchen and the question was settled.

Ranger went straight to the water bowl by the back door. It had been Dad’s dog’s bowl, and she had never thrown it out. He drank as if he lived here, then lay down on the rug by the stove.

“He remembers,” she said.

“He remembers everything.”

“Smart dog.”

“Lena’s dog.”

“Technically. Emotionally yours.”

She set a plate in front of me. Toast, a fried egg, two strips of bacon. I had not said I was hungry. She had not asked.

I ate.

She sat across from me with her coffee.

“Tell me,” she said.

So I did.

The short version. The contract, the number, the choice.

She listened the way she listened to everything: completely, both hands around her mug, eyes not leaving my face.

When I finished, she was quiet for a long time.

Then she said, “Your father would have lost his mind at that number.”

“I know.”

“For about twenty minutes.” She took a sip. “And then he would have agreed with you.”

I felt the smile before I stopped it.

“He would have made me work for it.”

“Oh, he would have made you justify it over three dinners and a ride to the hardware store.” She set the cup down. “But he would have agreed.”

That was as close as Kathleen McKinney came to benediction.

I took it.

She studied me for a second longer. Then her eyes did the small thing they did when she was about to ask something she already knew.