The Door I Opened

Clara’s arm was beside mine at the town hall steps. I could take it and go in with her. I could also tell her I’d be all right and listen to her walk away while I stood outside.

The second choice felt harder than the stairs.

My ankle gave a dull complaint under the splint. I kept my weight even and looked toward the hall door. Voices moved behind it, softened by the wood. I recognized Mrs. Dorr’s low, matter-of-fact tone, then Nettle’s quicker one.

Clara waited without reaching for me. “I can walk you to the table,” she said. “Or I can go back to the bakery. You choose.”

“I want to go in.” My fingers had tightened around the folded cloth in my pocket. I loosened them. “You can go back.”

“All right.” She offered her arm for the steps. “I’ll see you at home.”

I took it. The three steps were not long, but the stone had a damp shine and my ankle still didn’t like surprises. At the top, Clara turned her face toward me, listening for the door.

“Mrs. Dorr’s at the near end of the table,” she said. “Nettle is usually beside her.”

“Thank you.”

Her paw brushed my sleeve only after I nodded. Then she let go. I watched her descend, one careful step at a time, until the bakery’s red scarf disappeared beyond the corner.

The door stayed shut. I had time to turn around before anyone inside knew I’d been there.

I opened it.

The room had been rearranged since last week. Two tables stood end to end, and everyone sat along the sides. A basket of mending sat near the middle. Mrs. Dorr looked up when the door creaked.

“There you are, Toby.” She made space beside her, moving a spool and a cup. “I saved you a chair.”

The chair was at the far end, not near the doorway. I could see it clearly. I could also see that everyone else had already started.

“I’ll get it,” I said.

Mrs. Dorr nodded and returned to threading her needle. Nobody came to guide me. The lack of fuss made my walk across the room easier, though my ankle tightened before I reached the chair. I pulled it out and sat down.

Nettle leaned over the table. Her repaired mitten was on her hand, the mended thumb bent as she picked up a button.

“It’s still holding,” she said. She pressed the seam with one finger. “I wore it outside yesterday.”

I looked at the stitches. They had held. “Good.”

She slipped the mitten off and put it in her lap. “I brought a thing.”