At six I stood at my bedroom window with the folded room assignment sheet still in my robe pocket.

The driveway was empty, not one car or van or extension cord running to a block heater.

The house had no furnace hum, no dishwasher, no footsteps overhead.

I called Helen.

Helen, my neighbor and the bank manager, answered on the second ring.

“Margaret.”

“Did anything come through the account last night?”

She breathed once.