Chapter Four — Saturday, 7:10 a.m.

On Saturdays there's no helicopter, or if there is, I'm not there to hear it.

I live on the second floor of a brick fourplex off Bardstown Road, eleven steps up from the street, in an apartment I moved into the year Meredith and I divorced and meant to leave in a year. That was fifteen years ago. It has a galley kitchen and a living room with a radiator that knocks in October and a second bedroom with a set of bunk beds I bought for three children who are now a social-impact consultant in Denver, an engineering technician with two motorcycles in the Highlands, and a graduate student in Chicago who calls me every Sunday and asks if I'm eating vegetables.