He had on his dark wool winter coat, the heavy one with the wide collar and brass buttons he’d bought in Columbus five winters ago.

He hung it on the wooden peg next to the umbrella stand.

“Is Jeremy up in his room?” Zane asked, his voice low and hoarse.

“He’s doing his history reading,” I said, standing by the hall mirror.

Zane cleared his throat loudly before he walked into the kitchen toward the refrigerator.

I waited until I heard the faucet running in the sink, then crossed the hardwood floor to the coat rack.

The heavy dark wool felt cold under my fingers from the late autumn air outside.