Lena — Tuesday, November 17, 2026, 4:15–5:25 p.m.
Her father answered the door eating a piece of chicken.
“That's mine,” Lena said.
“Yours got cold.”
“You couldn't make an exception and feed me cold chicken?”
He moved aside. “I made you a plate. Don't take your shoes off, you're never here long enough.”
She took them off. He watched and laughed through his nose, trying not to get any pleasure out of winning.
The table had two places. She put her bag beside one and followed him into the kitchen. He was wearing an old shirt with one sleeve rolled up and the other down. Her mother would have fixed the sleeves before she sat to eat. Lena could see her reaching for him, annoyed with the elbow he kept out of her way. Now he wore it however he liked.
“I was eating the part that's no good,” he said.
“Noble of you.”
“You remember that when you put me somewhere.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Then stop looking like it.”
He brought the food to the table. Potatoes, chicken, green beans cooked softer than she liked. She hadn't eaten properly all day, and after the first bite she didn't mind the beans. He asked if she'd been at the house of the woman in the appeal. She said she'd spoken to the family. He knew there were things she couldn't tell him and took it as an invitation to guess.
“You found the car?”
She looked at him.
“They said on the news they were looking for it. I'm asking.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She swallowed. “What did you need to tell me?”
He sat back. He'd been waiting for a question and now didn't want it offered to him like an appointment.
“I'm going to move.”
“Move what?”
“Me.”
The kitchen clock was wrong. Seven minutes slow, the same as the last time she'd eaten here. She looked at it instead of him.
“You said you were thinking.”
“I thought.”
“Since when?”
“I went to look at it again. Friday. I liked it.”
He put his fork down.
“Closer to her,” he said. “She's there. I'm here. The road isn't getting shorter.”
“You're moving in?”
“No. I've found a place nearby.”
“What place?”
He described it, a rental he had seen, the ordinary rooms and parking and a small outdoor space where he could sit if he ever acquired the ability to sit. Two streets from the woman he wanted to see more often. Outside Pennsylvania. It was not a move to the other side of the country. Lena began calculating the journey anyway.
“Have you signed anything?”
He reached for the beans and served himself more.
“Dad.”
“I heard you.”
“I'm only asking.”
“You're asking with a pen in your hand.”
She looked down. She had got the pen from her bag without meaning to. A number, an address, something she could look at later. She put it on the table.
“I don't know who you're renting from.”
“Neither did I until I met them.”
“Did somebody look over—”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He lifted one eyebrow. He had used that look when she was small and lying badly, which made it seem outrageous to be given it now while she was trying to do something useful.
“Eat your dinner,” he said. “I'll show you the chair afterward.”
She put a potato in her mouth. It was too large. She had to work through it while he ate normally across from her. There were questions she could ask without sounding like this, if she could only get to them. Whether he was happy. Whether she would be welcome there on a weekend. She wanted to ask whether he'd miss the house and could hear the answer he might feel obliged to give.
“What chair?” she asked when she could.
“The chair you say I ought to throw out.”
“You ought to throw it out.”
“You see? This is why I waited to tell you.”
After they ate he took her to the living room. The recliner was under the reading lamp, a low broad thing in brown fabric with the shape of his elbows impressed into the arms. He wanted help taking it to the place he'd chosen.
“It'll be difficult,” she said.
“Could you drive? I'll hire something big enough.”
She walked around it. One foot had a pad of folded cardboard under it. Her father watched her discover that and did not offer an explanation.
“It won't fit in my car.”
“I know how big your car is.”
“I'm saying we'll need something else.”
“I wanted to ask which day you'd be off.”
She nearly smiled. He did, just enough to let her know he had seen it. The chair had come into their house years ago after some other chair had failed to be comfortable. Her mother had disliked its appearance and then fallen asleep in it more often than he had. Lena remembered finding them together in the room, her mother asleep, him watching television so quietly he had the captions on and kept missing jokes while trying to read. She remembered having been annoyed that they hadn't heard her come in.
Her father sat in the chair to demonstrate that it still worked. It lowered with a prolonged mechanical complaint.
“Very healthy,” Lena said.
“That's me. It likes to talk.”
“Will she let you put that in her place?”
“It's my place.”
He said it without looking at her. She stood beside the chair, imagining arriving at the house with her spare key and nobody inside. She could put her bag down, open a cupboard, find whatever she liked to eat. Nobody would hear her coming through the door. She looked at her father. He was trying to get the chair upright again.
At five ten her phone sounded from the kitchen. She let it ring twice, then went to see. Owen. Her father brought the chair upright while she answered.
The newer account had produced more things to check, not confirmation of where Nadia was. Work on the claimed later ride continued. Mercer was not the only person whose word they were checking. Owen had an update from a local colleague and wanted Lena's morning notes on a question about the sequence. She went to her bag and found the page, holding the phone with her shoulder.
Her father stood in the doorway until she finished.
“I can scan that,” she told Owen. “I'll send it.”
“You eating?”
“Finished.”
“All right. I'll be here.”
The call ended. She photographed the page and sent it. Her father returned to the table and stacked the plates.
“I can stay,” she said.
“I didn't ask you to go.”
She took a plate from him. They carried things into the kitchen. He had made enough for another meal and asked her if she wanted it. She did. He put it in a container while she ran water in the sink.
“Don't wash up,” he said.
“I'm right here.”
“So am I.”
She turned off the water. He handed her the container.
“Tell me when you want the chair moved,” she said.
“I will.”
“And let me know what you've already arranged. I won't book the wrong thing.”
He nodded. He asked her to take the pen she'd left on the table, and she put it back in her bag.
At the door he kissed her cheek. He smelled of the soap he had used for years. She wanted to hold him for a second longer, and did, making him pat her shoulder awkwardly.
“Drive carefully,” he said.
“It's what I do.”
“You look at your phone.”
“Not while I'm driving.”
He looked at her.
“All right,” she said.
She had left early enough to make another call before the evening. Her father was still in the doorway when she turned the car around. He waved, then went inside while she was waving back. She had meant to ask what day he wanted the chair moved. He would tell her; he had said he would. At the corner Owen called again, and she pulled over to answer.