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The sight was so normal, so familiar, so missed, that Ira
stops for a second just to watch him —but then he catches a
glimpse of Freddie’s stump, the sight of the scar in the daylight
causing something to knot in his stomach. He steps away from
the gap in the shower curtain and closes his eyes as he turns his
head up under the spray.
Suddenly, a muffled clatter reclaims Ira’s attention, along
with a loosed expletive from Freddie.
“You kiss your mother with a mouth like that?” Ira teases,
though he tugs the shower curtain back nearly halfway to make
sure everything is all right.
Freddie is crouched in front of the sink, trying to gather
up extra loose razorblades from where they’d fallen from their
cardboard storage box.
“I meant to catch them, but I —forgot,” says Freddie, glanc-
ing up at him, mouth pulled tight in a frustrated frown.
“You’re fine,” Ira says, pulling the shower curtain back
closed. “It happens.”
“Sure,” Freddie says.

•••
The humidity is thick enough to drizzle over pancakes, and
the electric fan can’t cut through it. Thin curtains hang limply as
cover in front of the open window, the blackout set pushed far to
the side. A wasp buzzes dully from behind them.
“Ira,” Freddie says from the couch, “The mail’s come.”
Ira looks up from where he’d been working at the kitchen
table, setting his pencil down next to the expense book. Fred-
die’s sitting, legs splayed, fanning himself with a program Ira’d
picked up from a ballgame two weeks ago, just before he’d got-
ten Freddie’s telegram.
“I suppose this means you want me to go get it for you,”
says Ira, rising from his chair. Freddie drops his head back and
gives Ira an upside-down smile, and Ira’s not sure he’ll ever get
used to the feeling of seeing it again.

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