At first I wasn’t sure I’d remember where to turn off the main road. But when I passed a mini-mall with a burned-out, boarded-up beauty salon in the middle, the odd twinge in my abdomen turned into a spasm. Who was I trying to fool? Like I’d ever forget this route as long as I lived. A few more turns led me to Lydia’s house. What had been a mild air of homeownerly neglect back in October had matured to a very real sense of impending collapse by January. The garage door was dented like someone had driven right into it. One of the porch steps was missing altogether, and flies swarmed over the mountain of trash bags just outside the front door. I remembered that the doorbell didn’t work, and knocked gently. I counted to fifty-Mississippi, but just as I was about to leave, the door opened a few inches to reveal a haggard face defined by sharp gray shadows. “Mrs. Small?” I asked. She stared dead-eyed at me, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “I’m…I was a friend of Lydia’s,”
