Fourteen
Phyllis Scott opened the oven door and pulled the heavy rack toward her, careful to not let the huge pan of meat loaf slide off. “Mmm. This is going to be good.” She knew she’d made too much, but she and Mark both loved meat loaf sandwiches. Besides, he hardly ever had time to visit anymore and share a meal with her.
She glanced behind her. The table was decorated for fall—plastic orange leaves, little turkey candles—which she never lit, cute pilgrims scattered among the leaves as a centerpiece. She skipped Halloween—that holiday was for Satan, and she wasn’t about to help him celebrate.
She lifted the pan onto a trivet, careful not to touch it to her counter, which wouldn’t take the heat. Steam rose from the meat in a satisfying swirl.
The timer on her phone chimed.
Noon. Ti
