Upstairs, the bed creaked.

My little sister had set it up so the stairs to her attic room didn’t make a sound. She didn’t want to disturb me when she came down to the kitchen late at night. But though the stairs were silent, the bed made noise when she and Taylor were… busy. The day before was the first time I heard them at it.

I was in the living room on a folding chair, sewing a button on one of her yellow polo shirts. My fingers had gone numb. I thought it was a late ache from cleaning the factory two days earlier, but in the time it took my brain to catch up with my glands, I knew it was something else. My hands had lost feeling because every bit of tactile sensation went between my legs.

It was like getting slapped awake. I froze in that chair with the needle in one hand and the bag of yellow buttons in the other.

This was my sister and a man I barely knew, but my body didn’t care who they were. It recognized the rhythms of their lovemaking and opened me, squeezing the breath out of my lungs and making my fingertips cold.

After putting the shirt and sewing supplies on the floor next to me, I went to the front door to get some air. The house was massive but had no rugs or wall hangings. We had very little furniture. Guests sat on folding chairs and plastic outdoor furniture that had been discarded by someone else. Our father had passed seven years before, and our mother had left with a man soon after. They’d left behind a dying town and a closed factory, so I’d sold the contents of the house to help the people in the town recover. They never did, but I employed whomever I could and sold most of what we had.

Harper went along with it because she didn’t care about the furniture, but she didn’t agree with my strategy. She was about “maintenance.” I had no idea what she was trying to maintain.

Out on the porch, the sounds of the squeaking bed faded. I took a deep breath. The house was set back on the end of a long drive, hidden from the main road by high hedges and a long garden. Overhead, birds flew south in crooked Vs and Ws. I was alone. Finally.

But the throb between my legs didn’t go away. I was going to have to walk it off.

Heading down the path toward the hedges, I thought about everything except the tempo of the creaking bed. I thought of how we used to have a staff to walk down the drive for the mail, and how, before his route doubled in size, Willy would come all the way down the drive to deliver it, just for the chance to say good morning to my mother. How many people could I hire to repave it? How many children could I feed with that small job?

I’d thought the driveway repair through before, but the money always found something more important to do. I was running out of things to sell, except the house itself. No one could afford to buy it, and those who could didn’t want it. So the Barrington Mansion stayed the Barrington Mansion even though it looked like no more than a big, old confection of a Victorian.

I got to the mailbox, a green-painted cast-iron chest with a bronze slot, just as Willy drove up in the white truck.

“Morning, Miss Barrington!” His seat was on the right, like a boxy, doorless European sportster. He handed me a short pile of mail.

“Morning, Willy. How’s Lara doing?”

“On the mend. It itches under the cast though. She complains like she’s dying of it.”

“That’ll be the last time she jumps off Crone’s Tree.”

“Probably not. You know kids. So what’s happening with that boy from California? Word is he’s been hanging around Miss Harper.”

My body was reminded of the bed creaking. I looked away from Willy in case the feeling was all over my face. “I think he’s all right.”

“How long’s he staying?”

The town was very protective of Harper and me, even though we were adults. My father’s dying wish was that they take care of us, and when folks here agreed, it was a solemn oath.

“Long enough for her to break his heart, I’m sure.”

Willy laughed and waved. He pulled onto the road, and I flipped through my mail as I walked back to the house. A few bills. Marketing junk. An early birthday card for me.

When I got to the white business-sized envelope with my name in dark blue ball point, I stopped. Stood in place. It was an expensive buff paper. The return address was engraved in slate grey.

Him.

I hadn’t heard from him since the night he left me.

Not a word.

And now… today.

All the other envelopes slipped to the ground, abandoned like old lovers.

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I read it again.

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Did I suddenly deserve effort?

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Oh, terrible. Terrible. Such a sweet dog, waiting patiently for us at the base of the tree.

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The day after my twenty-ninth birthday. So many years.

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How far down the path had we come to have no obligations?

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While he’s here.

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He’s coming here.

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Christopher.