Hank never watched the weather, nor was he ever surprised by it. When he woke to the tempered glow of a milk sky, he wasn't startled in the least. However, the smell of toast alarmed him. He pulled his pants on with such force that the wool weave's typically cool smoothness felt harsh on his skin. The momentary thought he had softened vanished as he hurried downstairs while still tugging on his standard black t-shirt.

Chatter met his ears first, constant and trivial in its effort. Hank never cared for prattle; words without meaning unsettled his mind, causing an almost instant physical tensing of his body. A long, persisting ache roared from his lower back. He drew close to the sitting room but halted against the hall wall. The fingers of one hand clutched to the thin edge of the jamb. It was much too thin and flimsy to allow for any actual physical stability, but the coolness gave the echoes of his mind a focus outside of the morning's deviations.

There, clinging to the house for solace, was where he heard the voice of his mother, the mother he had known years ago. Her voice had a verve he had long forgotten. His mind swirled with extracts from a different time when she would light up a room. The atmosphere she could create with her airy tone and cadence hypnotized. Josie's trimmings made for a palpable duet that felt as natural as the milk sky of the day. There was such a pulse to the exchange that the words lost all meaning, and only the intention remained; it was the converse of the typical prattle he shared with his mother.

"Hank," Josie nodded as she passed. She wasn't startled by him lurking in the hallway, as though she had known he was there. She simply gave him a nod with her greeting. He watched her pace confidently to the kitchen without realizing that his feet were carrying him after her.

"Thank you." He was uncertain what the expression was for, but he knew he owed it.

"Just tea and toast." The words felt absent as she poured a cup of water from the kettle and swirled her tea bag. There was a crumble to his shoulders as their labored duet paled to the one between her and his mother. He fixed his eyes on the delicate bones of her hand, twirling the bag as his mind lamented on his inability to relate. "I suppose I owe you a thanks as well, both for the company and the lift last night."

Hank marveled at how easily the words spilled from her with a playful wink tucked seamlessly at the end. She didn't press for additional conversation, opting to brush past him on her way back to the sitting room. A flutter of her flowing blue dress swept along the back of his hand. Instinctively, he pulled his hands together, rubbing the touched skin, again questioning if he somehow softened overnight.

Hank refreshed the kettle and set it to boil before digging out the carafe. Clara would use it for daytime card games and gossip sessions with the neighboring wives when he was young, but it had shifted to the back from years of abandonment. The kitchen island was cool and seemed to bite into his elbows as he slumped down on it, waiting for the boil. The verse of conversation fluttered into the kitchen, with the occasional chorus of laughter punching through the flow. He tried to push aside the envy of Josie's ease and instead focus on the mystery. She had sought him out, or the Carrolls, at the very least. And the car; he pulled the photo from his back pocket and examined it closer. It had to be the same car; it was not an ordinary vehicle. There were too many gaps for him to connect the car's passage between hands, but he knew the path was hovering just out of reach. The sharp whistle of the kettle shattered his thoughts.

"Henry!" His mother always exaggerated his entrance, but this morning's infectious tone made a tight smile appear.

He chased it away quickly as he set the carafe down and busied his hands by smoothing the curtains of his brown hair falling in front of his face before bringing his eyes to meet Clara's with his typical somber smile.

"I should get to the shop." With a nod to both ladies, he departed with a little too much eagerness.

Uncertain if he was running to solitude or contemplation, the Consul pulled him forward like a magnet. He stared at the car for a long time once he arrived. The days of bubbling fear now boiling over in the vehicle's proximity. Faded memories of his father swirled with photos of his childhood.

As if beckoned from the memories, Wendy pulled him back as her car idled behind him. She didn't bother to get out nor turn the vehicle off; she barely mustered rolling down the automatic window. "There's a rattle," she elevated her voice to soar above the car's rumble.

With nothing more than a dutiful nod, Hank listened to the car. There was no rattle to his ear. Without a moment's thought of propriety or proximity, he leaned into her window to pop the hood. Wendy quickly shot back in her seat to give him room, but he was already gone, back to listening to the car. Still no rattle.

"It's not doing it now." Her words were dismissive, and she hardly made eye contact. "Could you come by this evening to try again? After the children are asleep." It wasn't a question; it was a direction as clear as a street sign. Without waiting for a response, Wendy was already halfway down the road.

The time was dangerously close to lunch, and Hank had yet even to pop the Consul hood. Still, as he turned back to the telltale heart beating before him, he could not persuade himself to work. Instead, he pulled the picture from his back pocket and continued to gaze between the two, looking for a clue that would prove what he already knew. He was not as focused this time, though.

His mind wandered to the mansion, to his mother and Josie. He would need a reason the car was delayed, a reason to keep the vehicle and Josie close longer. A simple delay would be enough. He had seen enough clients glaze over as he explained the issues, attempting to be as transparent as possible. No one cared; everyone just wanted to know how much and how long. They were the currencies of life, money, and time. He would have to return home to update them, as his mother never answered the phone. There was a stirring in him as his mind settled on Josie. Her mystery was enticing to him in a manner he could not place, and it did not convince him he cared for any of it.

Hank knew the morning had been a success for Clara when he heard the crackle of Elvis spinning from the record player. He couldn't remember his mother's last time listening to music, but he recalled Elvis had always been a favorite. Many dinner parties ended with him watching from the stairs as his parents twirled to the music.

"Henry," his mother's voice had the usual enthusiasm, "we weren't expecting you until dinner."

"I'm running behind on the car. I wanted to give Josie an update." He met Josie's eyes as he spoke and gave a curt nod. "I need a part; it could be a day or two."

"Oh, marvelous!" Clara did not temper her excitement.

"I'm very sorry. Do you need to be getting somewhere? I would be happy to give you a lift?" He kept his tone even, but was as hopeful as his mother that she would stay longer.

"I suppose this is as good a place as any to fritter," her words came out absent, but felt feigned.

"You can stay here, of course," Clara quickly added, leaving no room for discussion.

"That would be very nice, but I wouldn't want to impose," Josie was reciting lines as if they were pre-written.

"Nonsense, you are the most fun I've had in years," as Clara spoke, No More swelled to an end. "Oh, my favorite," Clara swooned to no one as Can't Help Falling in Love filled the room. "If only these knees." Her words were distant for a moment before her eyes gleamed widely. "Henry, dance with Josie. If I can't dance, I can live through you." She smiled expectantly.

"Mom, I don't think Josie is looking for a dance." An awkward surge rose within him, shuffling his feet and straightening his back.

"Suppose you won't know unless you ask," Josie snuck a wink at Clara as she teased.

Usually, Hank was easy to persuade, but reluctance glued his feet to the floor. His eyes fell to the chair that Josie occupied; the blue dress set off her creamy skin. She gave the slightest nod that resonated with his stuck shoes.

"Josie, would you care for a dance?" His voice was quiet with hesitancy.

"Only if you lead with a gentle hand and a forgiving gait." She stood and dropped the needle to start the song over.

"Henry is a wonderful dancer, just like his father." Their noticeable chemistry enthralled Clara.

Hank lifted a hand as Josie let hers slip into the crux. He focused on the movements of the tiny bones beneath her skin. He had fixated on them earlier and now had the pleasure of feeling them twitch with life within his own. Her other hand reached to his shoulder. She was much shorter than his stature, and he slumped to ease her burden.

"I won't bite." Her words were a taunt, but the tone was a promise.

Hank swung their hands into them, so her tiny hand rested on his chest. For a moment, he regretted the move, fearing she would feel the hammering of his heart, but as they glided together, the worry slipped away. The song fell out, and "Rock-a-hula Baby" quickly replaced it. The new sentiment was ridiculous for the moment, but pulled him back to reality. He ricocheted apart from her offensively quick and busied himself with an unnecessary clearing of his throat.

Clara did not seem to notice; her eyes were far away, lost in thoughts of dancing with her ghosts. "That was marvelous. I think I'll go lie down," she murmured without even a glance around the room before gliding away.

"I should get back to the shop." Hank's voice was a low growl, dripping with the frustration of an unknown offense. Like his mother, he did not look for a response; he just disappeared.