Chapter 8: The Folder

The laundry arrangement began on Wednesday at seven p.m., and it began with a fight about detergent.

"It's unscented," said Magnus.

"It's nothing. It's a bottle that smells like a hospital hallway."

"It's hypoallergenic."

"I'm not allergic to anything."

"You sneezed at my sofa."

"Your sofa is gray, Magnus, it makes me feel like I'm getting a diagnosis."

Magnus looked at him from the doorway of the little closet he called a laundry room.

He had a bag of Teddy's clothes in one arm and a tote of Teddy's towels in the other.

"You called me Magnus," he said.

"I've been calling you Magnus for a week."

"Yes."

"You said I could."

"I did," said Magnus. "I was checking."

He turned away to open the washer, but Teddy had seen the corner of his mouth, and he decided to count it.

Weekly, they had said.

It had not been said again that they were pretending.

They had simply arrived at 2B on the first Wednesday, Teddy with a bag and a story ready for Garrick.

Magnus had opened the door, and the story had gone on being true.

Now Teddy sat on the dryer with a mug of tea and watched the most careful man in Oregon sort whites from darks.

"You have a system," Teddy said.

"Everyone has a system."

"My system is a pile."

"I know. I can see it from my balcony."

"You've been looking at my pile?"

"It's in my line of sight," said Magnus, and added a sock to the lights.

Admiral sat on the lid of the machine and supervised.

Magnus ran the cycle, and they stood in the small warm room while the drum turned.

Teddy told him about a woman who had returned a cactus for being "too sharp."

He told him about a man who had asked, with a straight face, whether a ficus could be trained.

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