She sighs and rubs her eyes, remembering too late the charcoal on her fingertips, and she is just about to stand to wash her face when she hears the elevator door clank shut and Maggie begin to bark. Isabelle looks at the microwave clock, puzzled; her mother isn’t meant to be home for another hour at least; probably it is the dry-cleaning, she thinks, or someone has sent flowers, or a Christmas package has arrived. Curious, she makes her way down the hall to the door.

A large man is bent over in the doorway, trying to push Maggie away from him, even slapping her snout a few times, Isabelle notes with indignation, and she is relieved when Maggie leaves the man and runs toward her, still barking. She holds Maggie by the collar and kneels beside her, stroking her beneath her chin, and when she looks back at the man in the doorway, he has straightened up so that she can see his face; it is her uncle.

“Hi-ya, Isabelle,” he says. She looks at him warily. She does not know him well, but she knows that there are times when he has made her mother cry. “Your mom home?”

Isabelle blinks at him, his wide, round face. The snow from his boots is melting on the floor. Maggie has finally stopped barking, but she is tense still, alert.

“You sick?”

Isabelle shakes her head again.

“Snow day?”

Isabelle stares at him.

“Lucky. Enjoy them while you can.” Isabelle lowers her gaze back to her uncle’s boots; there is an actual puddle around them now. “Mind if I come in?”

Isabelle stands and lets Maggie’s collar go; the dog approaches her uncle tentatively, her tail stiff. Her uncle steps inside, unzipping his coat.

“I had a meeting in town,” he says. “Foundation wanted to discuss some things with me. Important people. Important stuff.” He tosses his coat onto the hall bench. “Your mom going to be home soon?”

Isabelle nods.

“Haven’t seen her since the summer. Thought I’d drop in while I was here. She mentioned me coming to see you all anyway. Think she wants to see me.” He looks at his watch. “’Bout what time’ll she get here? Because there are other people I could see.”

Isabelle stares at him.

“What’s that, cat got yer tongue?”

Isabelle looks at the floor.

“Well,” he says, and his boots step out of their dirty puddle. “Coffee. Kitchen’s this way, right?” he says. She watches with horror as his boots stain their way down the hallway, and then she hurries after him toward the kitchen as if her presence could protect things from him there.

He pauses in the kitchen doorway; Isabelle skirts around him and rushes to her drawing on the table, which quickly she begins to roll.