By noon, the clouds had turned the color of lead, and the wind from the north was bringing the first real chill of November. Helen set a brown paper bag of turkey sandwiches next to my miter saw.
“She did not eat her breakfast,” Helen said, her voice carrying the flat, measured tone she used when she came off a twelve-hour shift at the hospital.
“She said she hurt her shoulder moving toy bins,” I said.
Helen checked the small silver dial on her wrist, then looked toward the house. “She was still sitting in the kitchen at ten, just looking at the wall.”
“She has a lot on her mind with the preschool,” I said, though I did not believe the words as I spoke them.
“She had that scarf wrapped so tight her chin was tucked into it, Arthur,” Helen said. “Inside a sixty-eight degree house.”
I took a bite of the sandwich, but the bread felt dry. “I will talk to her when she gets back from the grocery.”
“I have to go back in for the night shift at three,” Helen said, her fingers tracing the edge of my workbench. “Something is off.”
“I will handle it,” I said.
“We need to know what we are dealing with before we start fixing things,” she said, checking her wrist again.
She left through the side door, leaving the draft to rattle the loose pane in the window frame.
The noise of the dual exhaust came down the gravel driveway before the truck cleared the pine trees at the bend. Dustin’s black pickup bounced over the ruts, its tires throwing gray stones against my garden shed.
Marcy sat low in the passenger seat, her forehead pressed against the side glass.
Dustin killed the engine, leaving the radio thumping through the closed cab, and stepped out onto the gravel. He was wearing his gray athletic club sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, his forearms thick and pale.
