Hand heavy upon the doorframe, Cam intoned solemnly, “I shall leave this place.”

Betsy gave a condescending look to the back of his head, “Come sit down, love. Your roast is getting cold.”

Cam only stood at the open door, gray eyes matching the gathering storm in shade and portent. That same stray cat sauntered across the yard, probably off to poop in the rose bushes as usual. Mrs. Crayburn across the street was rearranging her lawn gnomes again; Cam was half convinced she did it to taunt him, though he couldn’t say how or why.

The roast chilled as Betsy ate her share in silence. Out of habit she’d set a third place which remained empty, just as the room upstairs did. Likewise, the convertible in the garage remained undriven, unrepaired, and untouched.

Meal finished, Betsy quietly challenged, “Where would you go?”

“Away,” came the curt reply, not that he could have given more detail.

Betsy considered her plate, eyeing the streaks of gravy, then offered in soft defiance, “He won’t be there either.”