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John stumbled through the day as he’d stumbled through the night. Visitors, well-wishers, helpers, family, and more family. Those handling it better gave him comfort. Those handling it worse, he comforted. No plan of action. No direction to turn anywhere on the farm that didn’t remind him of Grumps. When a girl of six sat in Grumps’ armchair, he’d wanted to heave her to the floor. When Mama set out lunch, she used the bread-and-butter pickles she put up special for Grumps each year and John had to leave the room.
The house pressed in on him. The people squeezed at his heart until he couldn’t stand another moment. Another instant.
He flailed about until he found the kitchen door and bolted through. He came to a halt four steps past the porch, blinded by the low evening sun. Without tu
