Their eyes widened as though they were seeing a dead woman pushing a cart through the cereal aisle.
Clara’s husband, Michael, visited every Sunday at ten.
He always brought two coffees, settled across from me at the kitchen table, and asked question after question until both cups turned cold.
“Tell me about the summer you two turned twelve,” he said one morning, holding the paper cup between both hands. “The one with the yellow bicycles.”
“I’ve told you that one, Michael.”
I told him again anyway.
I described how Clara had swerved unsteadily down the driveway.
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