She appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, moving quietly on the stairs. "Out," she said. "She didn't even make it to the second page."
"She does that." I handed her the last plate without thinking about it.
She took it just as naturally. She found the dish towel on the oven handle and dried the plate while I reached for the next one. We stood at the sink in the kind of silence that didn't need filling, the water still running warm over my hands. I was very aware of how close she was standing.
"How is she doing?" Maddie asked. "Really."
I thought about it. "Better than I expected. Worse than I want." I turned the tap off. "She has good days and then something will catch her and she'll go quiet for a while. A smell, a song. Something that was Cassie's." I paused. "She doesn't cry much. That worries me sometimes."
Maddie nodded. "It's not unusual. She's processing it in pieces." She set the plate on the rack with a soft click. "You're doing the right things, Jack."
Silence for a moment. Then she looked at the plate rather than at me.
"And how are you doing?"
"Fine," I said. "Got the job. Thirty-day review is on Monday. Housing is sorted, guardianship paperwork is moving." I reached for the dish towel, keeping my hands busy. "Getting there."
She didn't say anything for a moment.
"That's not what I meant," she said.
I was quiet for a second. "I'm okay."
She said nothing. Just stood there, and somehow the silence had a shape to it—the specific shape of someone who knew exactly what I wasn't saying and was prepared to wait for the rest.
I set the dish towel down and put both hands flat on the counter. The granite was cold under my palms.
"I never thought I'd be back here," I said. "Clear Creek. I thought—" I stopped and shrugged. "I don't know what I thought. That it was done. That chapter was closed." I looked down at my hands. "And now this. All of it." I took a breath. "I don't know how I'm doing, Maddie. Honestly. I don't know."
I stopped. Looked up at the ceiling—at the room above us, the small shape under the blankets, the rabbit with the mismatched eye.
"But I know what I have to do," I said.
She was looking at me when I turned. Not the careful look, not the professional one. Just her, just looking, and the kitchen was very quiet around us.
"Is there anything I can do?" she said. "To help. If it's money?—"
I smiled at that. I couldn't help it. "We're good. I wasn't much of a spender these past twelve years. I saved enough, and now with the job..." I shrugged. "But thanks, Maddie. Truly."
She nodded. Something had shifted in her face—the guard down an inch, maybe less. She looked at the counter, then back at me.
"What about you?" I asked. "You doing okay?"
I kept my voice easy. Just catching up. We were just two people who used to know each other, standing in a kitchen at the end of the night. "Things good? Work and—" I paused. "Tom, right?"
Something flickered across her face, brief and unreadable. "Yeah," she said. "Tom."
"Good guy?" It came out more like a question than I’d intended. My voice betrayed an interest I had no business having.
Maddie went still for a second. I had no right to ask that. She knew it, I knew it, and the quiet kitchen seemed to emphasize the overstep.
"Yeah," she said finally. "He’s a good guy."
"Good," I said.
Silence for a moment. I wasn't sure what I’d been looking for in the asking. Nothing, probably. Just filling the space the way you fill a room when you haven’t seen someone in twelve years and you're suddenly standing at a sink together at ten o’clock on a Friday night.
"Work’s good," she said. "Busy. Which is how I like it."