She needed some air. The orchids were too confining. She slipped on a frayed pair of cut off shorts and a Jimi Hendrix tank top and poured out a tin of chicken breast chunks on a plate for Miss Feathers before leaving. On the wide wrap around porch the air was clean and fresh and she snatched up an empty rocking chair that creaked and groaned and was satisfying to her ears when she lowered herself into it. As an afterthought, she wished she had worn pajamas. Several others were already there.

They had the good sense to be in fuzzy slippers, silken onesies; even the cowboy rocked alone, away from the others, wearing two piece adult sized Howdy Doody PJ’s. And here she was, much less comfortable than she could have been. Three old ladies in terry cloth robes with butterfly bandages on their face, ne...

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