Something made Margot glance up as a car pulled to the curb. It was an older white hatchback, thickly layered with road dust, a woman driving. Margot had a feeling the license plates on it would be Californian.

Shelly said, “Is that her? Is that her?”

But Margot was on her way to the door, and didn’t answer, because what if it wasn’t? She opened it and watched the woman climb tiredly out on the driver’s side. She was about five-three, plumper than Margot remembered, her brown hair well streaked with gray. She was wearing jeans and an ancient green sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off above the elbow.

And no glasses.

“Betsy, how can you drive without your glasses?” she scolded before she could stop herself.

“Contact lenses, of course,” replied Betsy, defense at hand, as usual. “Oh, Margot, I am so happy to see you!” She came blundering up onto the sidewalk, blinking away tears, to enter her sister’s welcoming embrace.

An hour later Betsy was in Margot’s apartment. It was a nice place, with proportions at once unfamiliar and cozy. The rooms were small, with low ceilings. In an efficient space were two bedrooms and bath, living room, and kitchen. A dining area off the kitchen was too small to be considered a separate room, but it was lit by a window that overlooked a small parking lot behind the building. If Betsy cared to lean sideways, she could see her weary old car pulled up under a lilac bush. Betsy was weary herself, but at the same time wound up tight, her body still swaying to the remembered movements of her car on the highway, her ears a little stopped up.

Last night, in a cheap motel in Omaha, she had been thinking of the ancient fable of the grasshopper and the ant. The prudent ant worked all summer, storing up seeds and dried fruit against the coming winter, while the grasshopper played in the sun. Then winter arrived and the grasshopper came knocking on the ant’s door, hoping for shelter. The ant had turned the grasshopper away.

Margot had invited Betsy to come, but in that motel Betsy had worried that her sister might think of her as a grasshopper. What if Margot was critical, or worse, condescending? Betsy wouldn’t put up with that. Maybe she should just call tomorrow and say she’d changed her mind, she was going to Chicago.

But Betsy had finished her trip to Minnesota and Margot had indeed seemed very glad to see her. On the other hand, this apartment wasn’t exactly the big fancy house Margot used to live in, back when she was married to Aaron Berglund. Betsy had thought Margot had been left a wealthy widow, but apparently not. Did the shop make enough for Betsy to have a lengthy free ride? Maybe she’d better look for a job pretty soon.

Still, “I hope you’re planning on a nice, long stay,” Margot had said down in the shop, right in front of a witness, a woman with long hair in a knot. Sally was her name, or was it Shelly? Whoever, she unashamedly eavesdropped on everything the sisters said to one another. Margot had finally noticed it was making Betsy uncomfortable, and all three unloaded the car, carrying mismatched suitcases up the stairs.