After Tim was returned to us, I couldn’t settle down. I found myself trying to avoid him. I went upstairs but Jerry was engrossed in a novel so I went back downstairs. Tim was at the kitchen table with his cinnamon-raisin toast and his L.A. Times. He had fit happily back into the routines we had established together over the months. He looked up to ask how I was. I said, “I’m at loose ends. I don’t know what to do with myself.”
He said, “Can I help? Would you like to play Scrabble?” (I know he hates Scrabble.) I didn’t answer. “What would you like to do?” I didn’t know.
“Nothing,” I said mournfully, not understanding myself.
Tim said gently, “Can I help you do nothing?”
It was just the sort of thing Jerry would say.