Зима тревоги нашей

           Bynowtherewasalargepileofemptycartonsonthefloor.Icarriedthemtothestoreroomtobetrimmedandkept.Lotsofpeoplecarrysupplieshomeinthemand,asMarullowouldsay,"Itsavesbags,kid."

           There’sthat"kid"again.Idon’tminditanymore.Iwanthimtocallme"kid,"eventothinkofmeas"kid."WhileIwasstackingthecartons,therecameabatteringonthefrontdoor.Ilookedatmybigoldsilverrailroadwatch,anddoyouknowforthefirsttimeinmylifeIhadnotopenedonthemomentofnine.Hereitwasplainlyquarterafternine.Allthatdiscussionwiththegrocerieshadthrownme.Throughtheglass-and-ironscreenofthedoorIcouldseeitwasMargieYoung-Hunt.Ihadneverreallylookedather,hadneverinspectedher.Maybethat’swhyshedidthefortune—justtomakesureIknewsheexisted.Ishouldn’tchangetooquickly.

           Ithrewopenthedoors.

           "Didn’tmeantoroutyouout."

           "ButI’mlate."

           "Areyou?"

           "Sure.It’safternine."

           Shesaunteredin.Herbehindstuckoutniceandroundandbouncedslowly,oneupandonedownwitheachstep.Shewaswellenoughstackedinfrontsoshedidn’thavetoemphasizethem.Theywerethere.MargieiswhatJoey-boywouldcalla"dish,"andmyownsonAllentoo,maybe.PerhapsIwasseeingherforthefirsttime.Herfeaturesregular,nosealittlelong,lipsoutlinedfullerthantheywere,thelowerparticularly.Herhairdyedarichchestnutbrownthatdoesn’toccurinnature,butpretty.