Chapter 13Joe stopped writing and set his fountain pen down near the stack of paper.
Yesterday, he’d moved the table to the narrow window and cleaned its dirty pane. He could see clearly through the glass now. He slid the window up and let the cool May air into the small room. Spring was well under way. Warmth.
Joe heard the children yelling in the street and realized it must have been three o’clock. School was out for the day, and soon, the neighborhood would be filled with noise as young ones were let out to play before their meager dinners were served. He’d never realized how much he’d missed seeing children. Sitting back in the wooden chair, Joe stretched his legs out and flexed his fingers—his hand was sore from writing all morning.
But there was nothing else for him to do.
“They’
