something open in Walter Briggs in a way that nothing in his 41 years of living had managed to do.
He drove them to his apartment that night.
He gave them his bed and slept on the couch.
In the morning he made oatmeal, which was all he had, and he watched the three of them sit at his small kitchen table and eat like it was the finest meal they’d ever tasted.
And somewhere between the oatmeal and the second cup of orange juice he poured for Darnell, Walter
