When Anna had lived with Walter for about a month, he decided to surprise her after school one day. He watched her board the bus and then he got busy moving her things into the master bedroom. He transferred his things into the spare room down the hall. It was right to give her this space, he thought, with the enormous windows and the private bath. He wanted her to feel at home here. He wanted her to feel special. And he didn't mind the small room anyway. It was easier to thi

It occurred to Walter, that if he would simply write his house number on the side of his trash can -- along with a few choice expletives -- it would render the can far less desirable to poachers. And it was this thinking that had him standing outside in his bathrobe at 2 AM with a can of orange Liquitex. "Five. Two. Seven. Maple." He counted aloud as he sprayed the uneven coats on the fresh new surface, the "seven" looking 10 times angrier than the "five." He had not guessed

Walter stood at the window of his unfurnished living room and watched his daughter saunter off toward the grouping on the corner. Each day he kept count. Would she turn and wave this time? It depended on her mood, he had deduced. Except that sometimes between the time she bounded down the stairs and reached her crowd of adoring fans on the corner, her mood would somehow miraculously lift. He chose to accept this as a random occurrence vs. growing indifference and was determin

Walter was a man of science. He knew how to repair space modules and calculate the speeds of solar winds. But terrestrial conundrums were alien to him. Still, he believed that if he could learn the reasons for crying he might eventually find a moment of actual peace. But today was not that day. She scowled at him in the mirror with her senile hair and resisted all attempts by him to subdue it with comb or brush or other implement of torture. She said I hate you. She said you