Arthur didn’t answer.

He picked his newspaper back up and smoothed the creased edge with his palm.

“We’re only looking out for your financial future,” Julian put in, leaning against the mantel.

“An unemployed widow can’t carry this mortgage.”

By nine o’clock the house had gone dead quiet except for the low hum of the furnace in the basement.

I sat by myself at the wooden kitchen table with my green canvas pack on the chair next to me.

Beyond the single-pane window, the cold night air had settled hard over Oak Ridge, tracing fine silver patterns of frost along the bottom corners of the frame.