“See ya later,” she said, and then she laughed and mouthed, “Feel better.”

When Paige was gone, Mom came down the hallway and into my room.

“Why are you in bed?” Mom said.

“I was tired.”

“Too tired to fill your grandmother’s wood box?”

“She said never mind about the wood,” I said.

“Why are you fibbing? Grammy said you didn’t even show up. Where were you?”

I sat in bed, and I felt nauseated. “I was there,” I told her. “Grammy wasn’t herself.”

Mom stared at me. “She started up? Well, you should’ve listened to me and filled that wood box. The river may be thawed and running again, but it gets cold at night.”

“Was she okay when you saw her?”

“She was sleeping when I got there, but I woke her up after I saw the wood box was empty.”

I sipped the ginger ale. “Did you fill it for her?”

“That’s your job,” she said. “Get up.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’ll take ten minutes.”

Mom left the doorway and went down the hall. I got up from the bed, the trapped feeling in my stomach loosening up and slipping out. My legs shook. Something bad seemed to be my fault. I guessed it was the smoking. I didn’t want Mom to know about it, just in case she snapped on me. Or even worse, on Grammy. I couldn’t do that to Grammy.

My sheets were muddy and I covered the mess by making my bed.

In the bathroom, I scrubbed the smell of smoke away until my hands were red.

At the front door, Mom handed me a heavy garbage bag. “Take this out, too.” She kissed the top of my head, opened the door for me, and sent me out. Frick was still working on the truck. As I passed him, he lay awkwardly in the passenger seat trying to disconnect something from under the glove compartment. “Shit, shit!” he said. “Fucking piece of shit!”

On the walk there I kept trying to push from my mind the woman I’d met earlier, but I couldn’t. I prepared for wickedness.

Grammy’s house was dark. The porch light was off, and the door was wide open. When I went inside, I made sure it clicked shut behind me. The only light—blue and white—that was shining came from the TV in the living room. Grammy sat in her recliner with her arms on the armrests, lit cigarette between her fingers, smoke coiling to the ceiling.

“Grammy?” I said.

“Oh, chagook!” she laughed. “You scared me.”

I stepped into the living room.

“Mom told me to fill the wood box,” I said.

“She won’t stop about that damn wood box. Go ahead, I suppose.”