She turned toward the dark kitchen window, her shoulders trembling.
By seven the next morning, the temperature had dropped ten degrees and a thin crust of gray ice covered the three wooden steps of our back porch.
I opened the heavy kitchen door to find Victor already there, holding a stiff straw broom with a cracked yellow handle.
He was sweeping the frozen slush off the bottom step, his movements slow and rhythmic in the pale morning light.
He wore his usual oversized wool coat, his hands tucked so deep into the dark sleeves that only the dirty cuffs of his flannel shirt showed.
The bristles of his broom made a dry, scratching sound against the bare wood.
He stopped when the screen door creaked, his head turning slowly toward me.
“The third step is soft near the edge,” Victor said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried through the cold air. “Watch your heel on it.”
“I know which steps are soft,” I said, pulling my wool collar up around my chin.
