All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook by Leslie Connor Page A

good reading light, but right now I am bending it so it shines on my timeline on the closet wall. I look at Saturday—today—and it feels over with. But I promised myself not to cross off any day until I come to bed at night, and we haven’t even had supper yet.
    I sweep the lamp light along the timeline, and it seems long. The last few days are folded into the corner where the closet walls meet. They look lost.
    I’ve heard Big Ed say that a timeline stretches to its longest when you fail to count your wins. So I count mine. I got to see Mom today. My next thought is: the visit was too stinking short. That’s not a win, so I try to shove it aside. But I cannot help knowing this: counting your wins doesn’t mean that you don’t know what your losses are. You do.
    Still, I got to see Mom. I saw that she is okay. She saw that I am okay too. Win. Win.
    I start a new list. I had a lot of things on my mind on the way home from Blue River today. Like the new intake, Mr. Wendell. I saw him standing by the front window, watching arrivals. I don’t know if anyone came for him. I wanted to ask Mom or Big Ed how he’s doing. But it slipped my mind.
    Mr. Wendell would never know it, but I feel linked to him. We are new intakes in different places. I wonder if he’s using the mottos. I wonder if he has made a timeline. I add it to my list; I’ll ask about Mr. Wendell next week. But more than anything else, I want to start my Coming to Butler County interviews.
    Zoey taps on my door, and we go down the hall together to set the table for supper. Mrs. Samuels is mixing ground meat for burgers, and for some reason I am dying to get my hands into that.
    â€œCan I do that?” I ask.
    â€œI bet you can, and yes, you may,” she says. “Clean hands first, though.”
    Thomas VanLeer shows up with a paintbrush just as Iam finishing at the sink. I get out of his way.
    â€œWell, aren’t we all bustling around here tonight,” he says. He pushes out a laugh. He tells us he is done painting the exterior trim around the garage. “Phew! That’s what a Saturday is for, ticking things off the old chore list . . .”
    He begins to talk to Mrs. Samuels then. “I’ll light that grill as soon as I’m done cleaning up here.”
    She says, “I’m way ahead of you!” For some reason, that makes them laugh. Then all the VanLeers are talking about Zoey’s dance lesson and a trip they took to the farmers’ market in David City earlier today.
    I pat the meat into burgers and line them up on a platter. It’s a little bit like being on the mess team at Blue River. That’s a rotating schedule. I remember that tonight is Mom’s night. She will be working with Eggy-Mon. I should be in the Blue River kitchen with her, listening to food poetry right about now . . .
    Instead I am watching Mrs. Samuels. She is weeping due to onions. She presses the back of her wrist to her nose and says, “Uh-oh! These are strong!”
    Mr. VanLeer takes a tissue to her. He stops in front of her, touches the tissue to her cheeks, just below one eye and then the other. She sniffs. They laugh. He asks her, “Better?” He kisses her forehead.
    I have seen him put his arms around her too. She does the same, or she leans in when they are standing close and then their shoulders touch for as long as they want. They doit like it’s nothing more than another way of talking. Love looks different inside a house.
    I follow Mrs. Samuels out to the patio. I carry the uncooked burgers, and she shovels them onto the grill with her spatula. There are two lawn chairs. She sits, so I sit too. The evening is gray and blowy but not cold. She tilts her face into the breeze.
    â€œMaybe one of our big old Nebraska storms is coming through,” I say.
    â€œAs long as it’s not hail,” she says. There’s a little patch of quiet then she asks, “Good visit