At Velda's sometimes, when the rain or the cold drove him in. The little yellow dog licking at his face as he sat on the plastic covered couch listening to her talk about Mark, the frozen chronology of him, and shivering, getting the creeps.
And the yellow dog following him around the house until he was sick of the thing, because Velda always said it was just what it'd done with Mark, and how Mark had practically been in love with it, how it sounded.
Velda baking him chocolate chip cookies at 2 a.m. He likes them but knows she's like, zoned, can't stop thinking of Mark.
So he didn't sleep at Velda's much, opting for the weirdness at Big Boy's even though he felt sorry for her, watching her hands tremble as she slowly turned the pages of the albums.