Chapter 7: The Gate

I walked out of Calder Ridge on a gray Tuesday morning, eighteen months to the day after the bailiff cuffed me.

The block had given me a send-off.

Two hundred men banged their cups on the bars.

The landlord, who had been my second for sixteen months, shook my hand and said, "Come back and visit."

"Never," I told him.

"That's what a king says."

The last gate buzzed, and I stepped through it.

I carried a clear plastic bag with my wallet, my rented jacket and a folded piece of paper.

The paper was from Katie.

She had written to me every month since Amos died.

Her handwriting leaned a little to the right, and her letters were short and funny and never once asked me for anything.

*Pell Street still smells like wet dog,* the last one said.

*A neighbor's beagle moved in next door. I'm told this is the street's best feature. I'll be at the gate.*

I stopped on the gravel and looked up.

The sky was huge.

I had forgotten how huge.

A black town car idled at the curb with its engine running.

Beside it, on the sidewalk, stood three photographers and a woman with a microphone.

Eugenia got out of the back seat in a charcoal coat, with her silver hair freshly set.

She looked tired, but only to someone who knew her.

"Reed," she said warmly, and held out both hands. "Welcome home."

The cameras clicked.

I didn't take her hands.

"What do you want, Eugenia?"

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