The brass key to our back door was missing from its usual metal hook by the microwave. On the yellow linoleum directly below the empty hook lay a single, dry maple leaf that had not been there when I locked the house the night before.
I poured two cups of black coffee, leaving the gallon of milk on the counter next to the grocery receipt that showed three dollars and eighty cents.
Mark sat at the kitchen table, his large thumb tracing the deep scratch in the oak finish where his key ring had gouged the wood the previous winter.
“She was doing it again,” Mark said, his voice already carrying that heavy, resonant vibration that made the juice glasses in the cupboard hum.
I handed him his blue ceramic mug and sat down opposite him, keeping my hands wrapped around my own warm cup. “Emma was asleep by eight, Mark.”
“I do not care when she went down,” he said, and the heavy brass ring on his middle finger clinked against the ceramic. “The walls in this house are like paper, Sarah.”
“It is just a little congestion from the autumn draft,” I said, keeping my tone as even as I did when registering new students at the school.
