“Don't take long, boys. We only have twenty minutes until we have to pick up your mother.”

Bill places one hand on the back of a plastic chair and the other on the table in front of him. He holds as much of his weight as he can with his hands and lowers himself down onto the orange library chair.

Why are these things so low to the ground?

His lower back screams as he sits.

Dammit, I need to get back to physio. And lose some weight.

He shifts in the chair until he finds a position in which the pain is a steady ache instead of a pulsating rhythm of stabbing knives. He notices that he's only a few feet from the magazine display.

I should've grabbed one of those before I sat down. I'm not getting back up until the kids get their books.

He scans the out-of-reach headlines and tries to pay attention to the more intellectual topics—politics, the economy, world affairs—but he's drawn to the sports titles. Hockey, football, baseball. Baseball, that's the siren who sings for him. One issue has a cover story about players who voluntarily retired. Is that Martinez? That really looks like Martinez.

Could be. He's old enough. Surprised I didn't know.

He forces himself back to his feet. So many things hurt as he moves, but it's his lower back that's commanding most of his attention today.

I really need to do my stretches.

It takes him a moment to gather his resolve enough to push through the pain of the first step forward. He flinches as he brings his left foot forward. Thankfully, the magazine rack is only a few steps away. A closer look confirms that it is Martinez on the magazine cover.

When did I see Martinez last? The party right before...

He takes the magazine from the rack and flips to the cover story. Signed at twenty-three, three years in the minors, ten years in the major leagues.

“Dad, dad, dad,” Cooper says. “Can we get three books each? Pleeeeeeeasssssssse?”

“Dad, are you OK?” Jackson asks.

Eleven-year-old Cooper is two years older than his brother, but Jackson is the older soul. Bill ruffles Jackson's chocolate brown hair and smiles. “I'm fine, buddy. Your old man is just feeling a bit extra old.”

“Well, you are pretty much ancient,” Cooper says. “So, can we get three books each?”

“Sure. Let's go hog wild. Three books a piece. I'll get my credit card.”

“Aren't library books free?”

“I can't get anything by you guys, can I?”

A couple minutes later, the boys leap into the family minivan with the agility of cats. Bill moves with more care and intention as he slides onto the driver's seat that is more beige now than its original light grey. They drive over to the hospital and park in a loading zone. Bill ignores the horn blast and angry gesture from a delivery truck driver who wants the spot. The driver double parks, boxing Bill's van in between the curb, an off-duty ambulance, and a blue sedan. The delivery woman gives Bill a dirty look as she wheels a dolly full of packages past the occupied loading zone. He watches Evie hold the hospital's delivery entrance open for the woman before getting into the van. She leans over and kisses Bill on the cheek.

“Hey, babe,” she says. She turns to the boys in the backseat. “Well, this looks like a nice family. I think I'll go home with you all.”

“Only if you know how to make chocolate chip waffles,” says Jackson.

“Oh, I do, I do. It must be destiny.”

Cooper rolls his eyes.

“Oh, Mister Too-Cool-For-School back there doesn't think his mom is funny anymore?”

“You're so funny, Mom.”

Evie grins at the well-delivered sarcasm.

“Babe, how come we aren't moving?” she asks Bill.

“We're blocked in.”

“You can't fit between the truck and the ambulance?”

“Not in this boat. Stupid temperamental delivery drivers.”

“Well, you are parked in a loading zone.”

“Only for a minute. I pick you up here—” Bill stops talking when a trio of beeps comes from the car behind them. A frumpy-looking man and sharply dressed woman are heading for the sedan.

“Looks like the detectives are moving their car,” Evie says.

“Detectives?” Bill says.

“Yeah, they're looking for a woman who robbed Henderson's grocery store with a broken jar.”

“What?”

“Apparently, she smashed the end off of a bottle of barbecue sauce and threatened the cashier with the broken glass, then she slipped on the way out and stabbed herself in the arm. They're passing out photos from the security cameras, figure she'll have to go somewhere for stitches, and there aren't many places to go in Middlesworth.”

“Everyone knows you're supposed to break into a vet clinic when you need stitches after a crime. Haven't they ever watched a movie?”