I sat at the kitchen table after breakfast and put both feet flat on the floor. The first steps had hurt. Sitting still did not. I had no reason to get up yet, so I stayed with the crossword while the light moved across the table. The brace was beside the plate. My hand felt better than it had after the last shift, though the fingers were slow when I first picked up the pen. I opened and closed them a few times. The coffee went cold before I finished it. Later I walked to the end of the block and back for the paper. I was warmer when I came in and took off the sweatshirt.

My daughter came over with food and did not ask whether I was happy. We ate and she told me about a woman at work who keeps moving things on a shared desk. It was not much of a story. I liked hearing it. She washed two plates before she left, although I had told her to leave them. The house was quiet again afterward. I was glad she had come and glad I had not had to explain anything. I put the leftover food in the refrigerator. There was enough for the meal before my next shift. She had remembered I would need it without making that the reason for the visit.

I took down an art book and looked for a painting I remembered. I knew which side of the page it was on. I could not remember the title. When I found it, a pencil note in the margin was mine, written years ago, and I disagreed with it. I had been certain then that the arrangement directed the eye in one particular way. Today I kept looking at something else. I did not erase the note. I shut the book and went to make my sandwich, then came back to look again. It was still the same painting. I had less interest in deciding what everybody ought to see in it.