“No, no . . .”
“You smell anxious.”
“Stop doing that.”
“I’m not doing anything!” she huffed, sliding the bowl of porridge to me across the table.
The bowl hit my hand, warm to the touch. “Stop trying to scent me. I just had a nightmare, is all.”
“Fine! I was just trying to be helpful.” She plopped down on the stool and stared between me and the bowl. An awkward silenceloomed between us, and by how she picked at her nails, another question was inevitable. “What was your dream about?”
I glared at her in warning, taking a bite of my food.
“I’m just curious!”
“You are nosy.”
“Yes, I am so horrible for my extraordinary empathy.” She tossed her hands up before crossing them.
“Dogs” is all I said.
Her frown twisted into a sneer of defeat, biting her cheek. After another silence, “Was it a small dog or a large?—”
“Phoebe!” I laughed, gesturing as if I were about to throw my spoon at her.
The banter was promptly interrupted by the chiming of the doorbell.
I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, then my hands on my skirt. Hastily tucking my hair back into something manageable, I rushed to the door.
Peeping through the viewfinder of the door, I squinted at the early-morning visitor. There was a man, dark-haired with creeping grays around the forelock. His tired expression shifted when I opened the door, a slight smile and a softening of the eyes settling.
“You’re early.” I opened the door wider, beckoning him inside.
“I said early; I’m here early,” he grunted as he picked up his box of tools before stepping through the entryway.
“Is that John?” Phoebe shouted from the kitchen.
There was a chorus of greetings from the living room upon hearing the name.
“You can borrow him after!” I gestured for him to follow me to the second floor.
In the middle of the hallway, I reached for the rope for the attic door. A ladder unfolded as I pulled the cord. The creak of the old, dry wood invited us to the darkness above.
The attic was shallow, and I had to lean down whenever I was up there. I could only stand with poor posture under the gable and that was it. The space was stuffy and humble, with a simple chair and a circular window facing the front of the house. A few clothing lines strung like a web with our laundry sulking in the torrid air.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Here.” I pointed at a spot on the ceiling, a deep stain above an overflowing bucket. “Can you patch it?”
John tilted his head, touching the wet wood. “You need to replace the roof.”
“Well, how long does that take? We can go up there now.”
“It’s covered in snow and ice; we will likely have to wait until it melts.”
“Then what do we do about the leak?”
“Get a bigger bucket.”
