Chapter 1
Through the screen door you can see the kitchen table: two plates, two forks, two knives. Three people live in this house. Mrs. Kolb has the radio on and her apron on and a whole carton of eggs going into a bowl, one at a time, each one tapped clean on the rim. Your hand has been up to knock for a while now. You haven't knocked. A little after ten last night you and Denny split up at Ferris and the spillway road. He went down the hill. That taillight he rigged himself — a chip of red plastic taped over the bulb — swung around every time he stood on the pedals, and you watched the red go soft in the fog and then go out, and then you rode home and went to bed. He'd asked if you wanted to take the long way with him, over the bridge. You told him it was too cold. It is eight in the morning on a Saturday. Ruthie comes down the stairs in yesterday's clothes. Her eyes look like she's been out in the wind all night. She cuts the long way around the kitchen, behind her mother, and comes up to the other side of the screen and stands there looking at you through it. She doesn't say good morning. She doesn't ask what you're doing on the porch at eight in the morning. What she says is: "You still know his name. Don't you." Then, lower, faster, like she doesn't want it getting behind her: "Mom asked me before you got here if we should clear the upstairs room out for her sewing machine. I said sure, Mom. Go ahead and guess why I said sure." In the kitchen the radio is reading numbers. Yesterday's level at the reservoir, then today's. Today's is lower.