The clock on the mantel is ticking, spinning its hands. Ruth is about to throw it out the window. She’s still in her security uniform, her tie unclipped, her shoelaces loosened. It’s after five in the morning—she knows that without being reminded.
Dwayne sits facing her, in her father’s old easy chair. A history of the Civil War rests, closed, in his lap. He drove over from West Philly at three, without any question. She appreciates that he hasn’t asked for an explanation, and the way his calm eyes take in the room—never quite settling, yet never staring. He wears a striped pajama shirt, rubber sandals, and doesn’t even look tired, though he must be. She must be, also. She can’t tell.
They pretend not to notice the sirens; she listens to every one with dread, with hope. The clock ticks. The sirens fade. The windows are wide open, but there’s no breeze. Flies find their way through the patched screens, bounce along the walls.
Standing, Dwayne crosses the room. He sits next to Ruth on the couch and the springs give way, drawing her toward him. He takes hold of her hand.
“How late is he usually out?”
“I have no idea. Not this late. You know the hours I work.”
“Think we should call the police?”
“That’s bad luck,” Ruth says. “If you do it before sunrise, it is.”
“Want to go looking?”
She shakes her head. She’s afraid Dwayne will keep talking, try to start a conversation, but he does not. The room is silent except for the flies. The lamps glow and shine through their shades, casting round circles of light onto the cracked ceiling. The clock sounds the half hour.