Silas’s father shuffled out of the bathroom and down the long hall into the living room, white specks of medicine clinging to his lips. Silas chewed on his own lower lip and shifted in his chair. His father was rotting from the inside out, and much of their visits consisted of Silas sitting and waiting in the living room, trying not to listen to the sounds coming from the bathroom.
There had been little for them to talk about when the old man was well. Now, during his long decline, there was even less. Talking about Silas’s mother, who now lived in town, was almost always inflammatory. Silas’s new job at the social-service agency was too complicated and vulnerable a subject. The talk drifted to birds.
