Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

losing your grip.”

“We will find them,” I said, though my hand was cold when I reached for the light switch. “They have to be here.”

I walked back toward the house, the gravel crunching under my shoes like dry leaves. The kitchen was dark when I let myself in, save for the single yellow light over the stove.

Donald had already gone up to bed, but he had continue reading …