Arthur sat in the floral armchair in the corner of the living room, wrapped in a damp wool blanket that smelled of the basement. He looked smaller than he had six months ago, his face gray in the pale light of the single floor lamp.
I went to the kitchen and filled a ceramic mug with warm water from the kettle, then brought it back to him. I sat on the low wooden stool near his knees, holding the mug until he reached out to take it.
“Drink some of this, Dad,” I said.
He did not reach for the mug right away. He kept his hands tucked under the edge of the gray wool, his fingers twitching slightly against his knees.
“I cannot find the blue notebook, Clara,” he said, his voice soft and formal. “The ledger where I keep the utility balances. I wanted to check the municipal water statement from October, but the shelf by the telephone is empty.”
