Chapter 8: One Lie a Week

On the Thursday of the second week, Abel finished his infusion forty minutes before I did.

He didn't leave.

He sat in the visitor chair at the end of my recliner with his boots up on the footrest and watched me nap.

I woke to find him eating a cup of orange gelatin with a plastic spoon.

"That's the pudding," I said, groggy.

"This is not pudding. This is a legal loophole."

"They'll take your chair away."

"They'll never find it." He scraped the cup. "Marla's picking you up, right? The one with the crackers?"

"She has a deposition."

"Then I'll drive you."

"You don't have to."

"I know." He shrugged. "I've been wanting an excuse to leave this parking lot with another person in it."

I let him help me stand.

I let him carry my bag.

His truck was a dented green pickup with a toolbox bolted across the bed, and the cab smelled of sawdust and old coffee.

There was a child's drawing taped to the dash.

It showed a house, a sun, and a very large dog.

"My niece," he said. "She's six. That's a portrait of me and my truck."

"Which one's you?"

"The dog."

I laughed again, and this time it didn't stop at once.

It went on until I had to put my hand on my ribs and lean against the window.

"That's the best sound I've heard all week," Abel said, pulling out of the lot.

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