Louise stayed out on her porch bed, hoping to avoid Arliss. She read Mrs. Finger’s True Romance magazines until her eyes ached. She played solitaire on the bed. It was turning colder and the wind hissed through the window cracks, chased dust across the rough porch floor. She could feel the bite of winter and she wondered if she were to stay here if they would let her freeze to death on their back porch. The lamp beside her bed offered a dim ring of light. She could see her breath now. Her sheets were so slick and cold she placed them on top of her blankets to avoid their chill. The wool scratched her face but held the warmth to her. She tugged the blankets over her nose, pulled her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes.

When she heard the screen door open then bang shut, she wondered if Mrs. Finger had returned. But the house was quiet, too quiet. Louise rolled over, facing the house wall. She lifted her head from the pillow but stayed still. She listened. She heard nothing. But she could feel Warner Phillips in the house. She listened harder with her eyes open. She could feel Warner Phillips’s shoeless feet press the linoleum floor. She thought she could hear the teeth of his zipper unhitching, his clothes dropping to the floor. She heard the groan of Arliss’s bedsprings as Arliss shifted to open her covers to him. Louise pulled the blanket up over her eyes again but strained to hear them whispering. After a long while she slept.