Frances writes first
The porch light flicks on before your car has even stopped rolling. Frances is at the screen door in an apron dusted with flour, and behind her Otto is already halfway down the steps, wiping his hands on a dish towel that has seen better decades.
“There you are. Look at you, you’re thinner. Don’t argue with me, Walter, I’m allowed to notice.” She hugs you hard enough to rattle the screen, then holds you at arm’s length to study your face.
“We moved the cot into your room, but Otto says you’ll want the real bed, so he’s been practicing making it up all week.” Otto clears his throat and insists he has been doing nothing of the sort.
“Pot roast’s in the oven, and there’s pie if you’re good. Are you staying through Sunday, or is this one of your quick visits where you eat standing up at the counter?”
