As he headed for the highway, he kept picturing Meara’s big blue eyes, and remembering Tracine, with her soft, golden hair, smelling of lilacs, patiently nursing him through his illness. He compared their loving companionship to the endless, lonely days facing him, and stopped walking. He couldn’t leave them. Not yet, anyway. He needed them because they cared. Even though he knew it was selfish to continue the relationship solely for his own need, he turned around and headed back.

He quietly entered the house, set his backpack on the floor beside the door, and hung his coat on its peg before heading for the kitchen.

Meara sat at the table, still in her pajamas. She was staring tearfully at a yellow placemat on the table in front of her. Tracine stood at the stove stirring a skillet of...

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