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House took far less time than he had wanted it to. Once he finished
this, once he delivered what he had been given, he would have
nothing left. No one. Nowhere to go.
Maybe that was best. He was tired down to his bones,
exhausted and weary like a seventeen-year-old wearing an old
man’s body.
Arthur had scarcely dropped his hand from knocking when
the door was flung open and he was greeted by a woman, every-
thing about her soft and curled and warm. Her cheerful expression
died in the breath o
f time it took for Mrs. Johnson to realize
exactly who it was he reminded her of. She let out a whoosh of
breath, collapsing beneath it, suddenly diminished.
“You must be Arthur.” Her eyes searched his face as though
she could make him look like someone else. Anyone else.
He couldn’t blame her.
His own smile felt like a guilty lie on his face, tight and itchy as
a sunburn. “I am. I have a letter for you.” He dropped his case and
pulled the resealed letter out of his suit jacket pocket.
A letter for Mrs. Johnson, he thought. Accursed items for Mr.
Johnson. Nothing for me.
Mrs. Johnson took it, her palm sinking beneath the weight of
unread words. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Arthur wanted to go inside. He felt exposed, standing alone
on the porch. Maybe she wouldn’t let him in. He wouldn’t blame
her. Maybe if she let him in, he’d immediately slip out the back
and keep going, keep traveling, keep hiding.
He thought of his mother. Her pale, cold toes.
“Yes, she died last week.”
He was unprepared for Mrs. Johnson to wrap her arms around
