Maybe they mistook it for loose garbage cans clattering around in the driveway. Or maybe it got lost in the screaming howls of wind that gusted against the house, buzzing through cracks in the window frames, drowning out all other sounds. Vicki Manning, clearing dinner plates, waited for the wind to subside before speaking. ‘Wow. That was almost as loud as Trent’s snoring.’ Harper Jennings laughed, nodding. She’d heard those snores; Vicki’s husband could shake walls when he slept. ‘Need. Putty. Fix.’ Hank Jennings put down his wine glass. He’d cooked again, had become quite adept in the kitchen in the last year. ‘In. Sulate. Before winter.’ ‘Put it on the to-do list.’ Harper picked up a salad bowl, planted a kiss on his cheek on her way to the kitchen sink. She had become accustomed to Hank’s speech; he had aphasia due to brain injuries from a fall from the roof. Most of the time, she understood his meaning perfectly, and she’d convinced herself that his speech was steadily improving.
