What does she like to read? What does she think about when she’s walking in the rain? Does she stomp in puddles or avoid them? Does she wear pajamas or a nightgown to bed? Is she messy or is she neat? Does she wear a sweater all summer or go swimming in Lake Superior the first of June? All of that! And at first I couldn’t understand why you’d want to know all that, but now that you say you’re really a writer, well, I understand perfectly! My brother is a writer; he writes short stories. He explained this to me, one time before he left for the war. It was when he was still in high school, and I was, oh, thirteen, I guess. I’ve always remembered it. He’s written wonderful stories about his experiences in the war that he sent home to my mother for safekeeping. Wonderful and terrible, too, of course.”

Harry leaned forward and picked up his fork again. “Well?” he said.

“What?”

“Do you stomp in puddles or avoid them?”

She smiled. “It depends on which shoes I’m wearing.”

It was past nine when, having polished off their suppers and two large pieces of chocolate chip pie, they finally rose to leave. “Goodness,” Anne said, putting on her coat. “I think I ate enough to last me the week.”

Harry smiled as he buttoned his coat. “Looks like Dolores knew best after all.” He paused, then went ahead and asked, “Can I give you a lift home?”

She adjusted her hat. “I live up by the college. Is that all right?”

“Of course. I’m heading that direction anyway.”

“All right, then.”

Dolores trundled toward them, a rag in her hand. “You kids stay warm out there, now,” she said. They were the last ones left in the restaurant, and Dolores looked as though her busy day had caught up with her.

“Thank you, Dolores,” Anne said.

“Thanks, Dolores,” Harry said. “Supper was just great. The pie, too.”

“Good, good. You kids come back soon,” Dolores called after them, as Harry held the door open for Anne and followed her out into the cold night.

The wind had died down and a gentle snow was falling, settling like a clean bedsheet over the quiet street. All the shops had closed up for the night; only two cars remained parked on the street. Harry hoped Anne would take his arm again, but she didn’t. In contrast to their hurried walk over from the hospital, though, she strolled slowly along.

“I love snow this time of year, don’t you?” she said, looking up at the drifting flakes.

“Better than in March, that’s for sure,” Harry said.

She laughed.

“So you live up by the college? I thought you said you were an East Ender,” he said. “I’ve got it in my notes!”