I was home for the weekend, helping Dad fix the back fence. It was late afternoon, hot and still, and we were arguing about whether the new post was straight when he suddenly looked past me toward the front yard.
“Dylan,” he said, in a voice I’d never heard before.
I turned.
There was a woman standing at the edge of our porch.
She was elegant in a polished, careful way. Expensive blouse. Perfect hair. Sunglasses pushed onto her head. She looked like someone who belonged in hotel lobbies and airport lounges, not on the cracked concrete step of our little house.
