Mira stood in the center of the living room. She did not even turn to us, her eyes and, apparently, her cry were directed at Reed. He stood at the window half-turned to her. Or maybe he turned around to meet us. If I even got to know him a little, then he likes to meet such conversations with his back. Grandma Cooper sat regally in a narrow burgundy high-backed chair. She didn't change her gray clothes. For what son, I wonder, she is now grieving. On the couch, the same burgundy color as much in this house, sat a downcast Bruce, he examined his overworked hands. He seemed to...