“We can talk right here in front of everybody,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“The kitchen.”

She let out a short huff, folded her arms over her cream coat, and followed me down the short, narrow hall.

The kitchen was warm from the oven, where Sarah had helped me bake a sheet cake earlier that afternoon.

The old refrigerator kept up its low, rattling hum in the corner by the back screen door.

I pulled the hall door halfway closed and turned to face her.