Chapter 7: The Floor

Daniel's POV

The house has an echo now.

I never knew it did.

For years there was a couch in front of the window and a rug on the tile.

I never heard my own boots.

I stood in the front hall on Saturday night with my keys in my hand and listened to my boots hit the floor.

I had slept at my mother's on Friday. I told myself it was so she wouldn't be alone.

Then Ben stood behind his desk and said, "Say what you did."

I couldn't spend another night with Mom's pot roast and nobody telling me what I'd done.

So I came home.

The kitchen was bare.

On the counter lay one sheet of paper.

It was the lab result, with the doctor's name at the bottom.

Somebody had flattened it with the side of a hand.

I looked in the sink.

My wife's wedding ring was lying beside the drain.

It was small.

I had bought it with the money from selling my first truck.

She had cried in the jeweler's parking lot, and told me I was an idiot, and put it on.

I picked it up. I put it in my shirt pocket and buttoned the flap.

Then I sat down on the kitchen floor, because there was nothing else to sit on.

I'm not a cruel man. I want that written down somewhere.

I inspect bridges for the county. I notice cracks that nobody else can see. I spend all day checking whether things will hold.

So when the cap came off June's head and her hair was red, I did what I do.

I checked.

I didn't think I was hurting anyone. I thought I was being careful.

The refrigerator hummed.

I got up and opened it, because it was something to do.

It was mostly empty. Mustard. Half a lemon.