The knock came again.

He concentrated on the TV to keep the person on the other side of the door out of his mind.

“. . . the convicted killer was found innocent. The DNA test did not match the blood found at the crime scene,” the woman was saying.

“Mr. Grey,” a girl called.

Ptolemy leaned forward suspiciously, wondering if somehow the TV had learned how to talk to him.

“Mr. Grey, it’s me, Robyn.”

Robins. They gathered in the trees outside his parents’ house in September and October and sang a sweet song to the cool winds that eased the last heat of summer. If Ptolemy sat still enough with week-old breadcrumbs scattered on the ground, the robins and other birds would gather around him in the grass next to the cypress tree.

“That food gonna attract rats,” his father would say, but Li’l Pea didn’t believe him.

The knock came again.

“Mr. Grey, are you all right in there?”

That was the right question. Hilly had never asked how he was. Hilly was a thief and even though he had saved him from Melinda Hogarth he still stole his money and then lied about it.

Ptolemy used to give Reggie money. Reggie wanted to help him. But then Reggie got lynched.

“Mr. Grey, if you don’t talk to me I’ll have to go call the police. I’m afraid that you might be hurt in there.”

Ptolemy opened his mouth to tell the girl that he was okay but he hadn’t spoken in days and his voice was gone. He got up and coughed, took a step, coughed again.

“I’m here,” he rasped.

“What?”

“I’m here.”

“It’s me, Robyn, Mr. Grey. Can I come in?”

“Who?” he wheezed.

“Robyn. You remembah, I took you in to see Reggie’s coffin. Then we took a taxi here.”

The image of Reggie’s body came up out of the floor at Ptolemy’s feet. He gasped and sobbed, remembering the death of his beloved son or nephew or great-grandnephew, yes, great-grandnephew.