Kiara stopped the tape.
We sat on the porch for a long time.
Then she took off the watch — Loretta’s watch, the one that ticks as steady as he did — and she put it in my hand, and closed my fingers over it.
“Sundays,” she said.
“Kiara, no. It’s yours. It’s in the will—”
“It’s in the will that it comes to me. It doesn’t say what I do with it after. Wear it on Sundays. I’ll wear it the rest of the week. That’s the arrangement, and he’d have liked it, and you know he’d have liked it.”
I wear it on Sundays.
The last thing I want to tell you is about the ramp.
The badly built one.
Somebody put it in years ago, half-level, with a rail that wobbled, and Mr. Booker had never once complained about it, because a man who’s been to w*r doesn’t complain about a ramp.
