Joe drank two cups of coffee. It was hot and strong, the way it always tasted best to him. He sat back in his chair, his fingers toying first with his spoon, then drumming noiselessly on the table. But he couldn’t sit still very long, and he arose, rinsed his cup and left it standing upended on the drain board, stood there for a while moodily watching the thin rivulets of water seep out from underneath the cup and run down the grooves in the board and empty into the sink. He turned away again and crossed the room to the window and stood there for a time, staring out into empty space. He walked to the connecting doorway, lifted his eyes to the upper floor landing and listened. There was no sound from his father’s room. Apparently he was still asleep. The doctor had told Joe the sedative he had given old Dan would be effective for some hours yet.

(cf. Arthur, Burt. Empty Saddles.)