Nora, our next-door neighbor, was already sitting in her sedan, the driver-side door swung wide to let in the morning breeze. She was sixty-five, wearing her gardening gloves with the fingertips cut out, her heavy brass keyring jingling against the steering column as she reached for her sunglasses.
“Morning, Caroline,” she called out, her voice a soft, apologetic murmur that barely carried across the lawn. “You’re down early today.”
“The mail hasn’t come yet,” I said, stopping near the edge of her grass. “I was hoping for a package.”
Nora adjusted her mirror, her keys jingling again. “I saw Luke leave for the concrete yard at dawn. He works those men hard, but he works himself harder.”
“Nora,” I said, stepping closer to her open car door. “Do you remember the autumn my sister Brenda stopped coming to visit?”
Nora paused, her hand hovering over the key in the ignition. She looked down at the dashboard, her fingers tracing the plastic rim of the steering wheel.
