The first person Margaret spoke to after Claire left was the paperboy. He was delivering the late edition, the edition Claire always brought home with her on the train but Claire had not been on the train that evening and Margaret, not knowing what else to do, flagged the paper boy over and asked for a newspaper.  It was almost seven and Margaret was sitting on the porch, meditating on the house across the street.
“If you’ve any extra, may I buy one?” Margaret whispered into the darkening street.  It was late September.
The boy looked straight onto the porch, trying to see her, see if he knew her.  Behind Margaret, the entire house was dark.
She came down the steps.  She wore a large flowery sundress like the dresses she had worn all summer.
The boy offered a folded paper.
“Thank you,” she said.
The boy did not respond.
“What do I owe you?” she asked, feeling in her pocket for change.
“Nothing,” he said, “I always have a few extra.”
“Thank you,” she said again.
The boy shrugged and turned to go.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but may I ask your name?”
The boy hesitated.
He was no more than five feet tall and not much older than thirteen and this was the manner in which he stood: one hand in his front jeans pocket and the other holding his paper bag, out and away, as if he would have nothing to do with it.
“I’m Junior,” the boy offered the hand that had just been warm in his pocket.  The heat of the hand surprised Margaret.  She did not know how cold she was.
“Junior for what?” Margaret asked.
“Just Junior.  My dad was a junior too, and his dad before, so we’re just a family of juniors.”
Junior sighed, as if this bit of information was the one sorrow of his life.
“I’m Margaret Marks,” she said.  “My partner’s name is Claire.”
The paperboy nodded, as if he knew about names or partners or anything but being a boy.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatient now to get on.
“Ma’am?” Junior waited.
“I’d like the paper delivered.  Daily.”
Businesslike, Junior pulled the big route book from his back pocket.  It was surprising how diminished he seemed then, with the bulk of the book gone from him.
In a moment she was penciled in and had said her goodnights.  For a little longer she sat on the top step and listened while each rolled paper landed home on each porch down the block.