He’d become a house guest, noncommittal and impassive. She tried
to see to it he wasn’t disturbed, nothing to trip him up: a
book, perhaps, laid down in some rash motion might scare him off
an edge, although he had a talent, it seemed, for focussing on
himself. He’d been so carefully attended, she thought—her
warning human guests to watch for him on the coverlet, not
overreact to his homely presence. She kept close guard, as was
her nature, a kind of partner to help him make it through the
cold. She’d done the research when he showed up; she knew all
his business, she had a duty. With these advantages, how had he
taken it upon himself to die? But there he was in that trite
pose, feet in the air, as if arranged on the sink top for her to
find him. She brushed her teeth, considering all the pine trees
surrounding the house, their heavy scent calling the half-
sleeping one at the rightful time. Hardly another month and he
would have been free, piercing and sucking that sap deep in the
cones.  Subscribe to The New