She never sees him come in. She falls asleep watching the starlight, and wakes up to the creaking of the rocking chair across the porch, the chair he has chiseled and shaped out of fir and aspen and blood red manzanita. He says nothing at all, but the chair begins squeaking and it mixes with the sounds of the throaty birds coming to life in the marshy area behind the woodland.
Why does he insist on intruding this way on her morning routine? It has been a week that she’s been here, and she has not worked up the courage to tell him that it has to stop.