--- D A V I D G R A H A M
All night he scuffles bedroom to bathroom to pantry, searches the faces on the refrigerator, pill schedules and emergency numbers. Shuffles on big careful feet to the sink, where a notepad gives him his daughter's name, who is here for a visit. Midnight. He shakes the door locks. Grabs a cookie, perhaps. One o'clock. Swivels the thermostat to ninety. One-thirty. Adds a log to the wood stove. Runs water, then leaves it going while he looks in the den for a glass. Two a.m. Three.
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