10 - Maeve
The put-putting of the Chevy’s engine pulled me awake. The novel I was trying to read had fallen from my lap, its pages embracing the woodwork.
Anyway, the story didn’t grab me. I could picture pages ahead what calamity would befall the hapless heroine, because not only did the author telegraph his punches, the character was, despite her science degree, too stupid to live.
A waft of diesel exhaust had me sputtering, but mercifully the noise abated. Kathleen was already out and discharging grocery bags—the reusable kind, in some waxy textile. I would have loved to assist her, but my legs could not bear me more than to and from the tiny washroom near the kitchen.
“Hope you did not grow bored, alone,” she said, balancing both fabric bags with tote bag and jingling keys.
I want
