He picked up the duffel. He took Owen's hand, small and damp inside the too-long sleeve. He climbed the porch steps, the new one solid under his boot, and walked into his house.
II.
The house smelled of pot roast.
That was the first thing, and it nearly undid him more than anything Owen had said. She had made his meal. She had the Crock-Pot going on the counter where it always sat, the carrots and potatoes and the onion soup mix she swore by, the same thing she had cooked the night before he left. She had cooked it today, or started it this morning, before she knew what time he would land and maybe before she knew he was coming at all. He stood in the kitchen doorway with the duffel still on his shoulder and couldn't sort out what that meant. He decided it probably meant all of it at once.