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I wipe my face with the red bandanna I have tied at my throat.

Without touching the corpse, we manage to slide it onto my tennis racket and carry it to the still-open window.

A blister rises on my thumb; another swells across my palm.

That first evening, after we unpack, buy basic groceries, eat, and walk to the spot where next week Jessica will meet the school bus, we climb the wooden spiral stairs to her room.

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For hopeless romantics, winter offers a starlit evening of ice skating on the frozen pond, followed by a warming cup of hot cocoa in the Pond Cottage.

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