Chapter 12: The Cot

"The salt is on the second shelf," I said.

"Thank you," Winifred said. "Arthur, your glasses are on the beans."

She took the salt and went out, and her candle went with her.

Arthur put his glasses on with both hands. They were crooked, and he left them that way.

We did not discuss it.

In the Lean Room, he stood by the radiator and said he needed to find Peter about the morning schedule.

"At midnight?" I asked.

"Peter likes it when people ask him about schedules," Arthur said. "It makes his day."

"Go on, then," I said.

He was gone twenty minutes.

When he came back, he looked steadier, and I did not like how steady.

There was a smear of blue-black ink on his right thumb.

I decided the groundskeeper had lent him a pen, and I did not ask.

"I can't sleep in the cupboard," he said. "It's forty degrees."

"No, you can't. Warm is usable, cold is wasted," I said.

"I'll take the floor," he said.

"It's a twenty-dollar sleeping bag on a hundred-year-old floor," I said. "Come on. There's room."

I pointed at the cot.

The Lean Cot had HAND-STAINED WORKHOUSE FINISH tied to its frame on a ribbon.

It cost eleven thousand dollars, and it was two feet wide.

I got on first and tested it.

It creaked, as expensive things do, and held.

Arthur sat down on the edge and took off his shoes.

The cot held.

He lay back, carefully, with his glasses still crooked, and I moved over until my shoulder was against his arm.

The cot made a long, thoughtful sound.

"It's fine," I said.

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