She glanced behind her.
“Other people panicked.”
Despite himself, he almost smiled.
Then the little girl returned, now wearing both socks.
One was pink.
The other was blue.
The father looked down.
“That is not the missing sock.”
“It is a sock.”
He opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Not worth it.
The woman smiled.
The girl looked toward the blanket.
“You can keep it.”
The woman touched the folded fleece.
“Are you sure?”
“I have another one.”
Her father looked at her.
“You absolutely do not.”
The child shrugged.
The woman laughed again.
Something about the sound made the tension in the doorway loosen slightly.
The father stepped aside.
“Come in before all of us freeze.”
The woman maneuvered up the wooden ramp leading to his porch.
Halfway up, she stopped.
Looked at the angle.
Then at him.
“You built this?”
“For my mother-in-law after surgery.”
“It’s too steep.”
“I know.”
“How long has it been temporary?”
He sighed.
“Four years.”
She smiled.
“Thought so.”
The house was small.
Clean.
Crowded with evidence of ordinary life.
Crayon drawings on the refrigerator.
Plastic cups.
A tiny winter coat hanging beside his work jacket.
A ceramic bowl filled with loose change, bolts, a toy horse, and a spark plug.
The woman noticed the spark plug.
“Kitchen decoration?”
“Long story.”
The little girl answered:
“Daddy puts car stuff everywhere.”
“Helpful.”
“Traitor,” he muttered.
The father moved one kitchen chair aside so the woman could position her wheelchair at the table.
Then he stopped himself from touching the chair handles.
She noticed that too.
He said:
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
The attorney and safety director had entered now.
They remained almost awkwardly near the doorway.
The father looked toward them.
“You two drink coffee?”
The lawyer said yes.
The safety director nodded.
His daughter raised her hand.
“Me.”
“No.”
“I like coffee.”
“You like six spoons of sugar dissolved in warm milk.”
“Coffee.”
“No.”
The woman hid a smile.
The father poured three mugs and placed them around the table.
Then he sat.
The woman removed her gloves.
For the first time he saw a faint red mark around one wrist from gripping her chair rims during the freezing night.
His eyes lingered.
She noticed.
“I’m fine.”
He looked away.
“Good.”
The attorney placed a thick folder on the table.
The little girl leaned toward it.
Her father immediately slid it away.
“Breakfast.”
She returned to her toast.
The woman folded her hands.
“I should start with something I did not tell you last night.”
“That list appears to be growing.”
“Yes.”
She met his eyes.
“I own the transportation company that failed to pick me up.”
He stared.
The refrigerator hummed behind him.
His daughter chewed toast.
The father finally said:
“Own?”
“Controlling interest.”
“How much?”