Empty again. I checked the mailbox while he napped; the film still hadn’t arrived. I paced back and forth with my notebook on the porch. I could see the edges of a scene for the story, then a clear glimpse of Henry seated at the kitchen table. Clanking the spoon on the edge of a bowl of warm vichyssoise. Cold soup was for the feeble. A bit early for lunch, but he supped all the same, with the crusted end of yesterday’s sourdough bread.