He never noticed me standing on the sidewalk by the light pole.

I turned around and walked back to Clara’s house before the lumber mill’s six o’clock whistle sounded.

By six thirty that evening, the sun hung low over the oaks behind Clara’s backyard.

The air had grown cool enough to carry the smell of wood smoke from the chimneys next door.

I sat on the wooden glider on Clara’s front porch, holding my mother’s silver pendant between my thumb and forefinger.

The metal was cool against my skin.