I cut the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the drumming of the rain on the tin roof of the car and Lily’s quiet breathing.
Then, a light flickered through the trees to our left.
The small, yellow porch lamp of the Callahan property glowed like a beacon. Arthur Callahan, a man who had farmed these hills since the Eisenhower administration, emerged from his screen door. He was wrapped in a heavy, grease-stained canvas coat, his steps slow but steady as he negotiated the wet grass between our properties.
I pushed my door open, the cold dampness of the night air hitting my face like a physical blow. I swung my bad leg out, my knee popping with a wet, painful click as I reached for my cane.
“Rachel,” Arthur said, his voice carrying the deep, gravelly cadence of the Blue Ridge. He held a large black umbrella over his head, tilting it to cover me as I struggled to stand. “I’ve been watching the road every night since the local paper ran the notice about your unit coming home.”
“Arthur,” I said, my teeth chattering. “The house... it’s in worse shape than I thought.”