ABSTRACT
A week later, I’m at the Stewarts’ house. Alan’s black sports car is already in their driveway when I arrive. He’s sitting at what they use as their dining table, a dark wooden table that could be found at anyone’s home, except that it’s squeezed in their living room next to the front door, and the space is so tight that it’s difficult for anyone except the children to get in or out. With effort, I slide onto the picnic-style bench next to the window. It’s a beautiful spring day, and from my vantage point next to the sunlight, the house seems brighter, cleaner even, than when I saw it before. More hopeful, perhaps? I watch Alan and the Stewarts fill out paperwork as I try unsuccessfully to distract their tiny cat from chewing on the tie string hanging from my shirt. I make a mental note not to wear clothes with anything dangling from them the next time I visit the house. The cat is a tiny calico and looks like a kitten, but Mrs. Stewart tells me it’s full grown.
