Somehow being almost certain she wouldn’t be, even though that included knowing she was with Angelo, seemed in some ways easier to handle. As if it had been the not knowing that had mattered, all those years. As if vague undefined uncertainties were harder to face than real dangers, as long as the dangers were understood and expected. It made no sense, but now, when it was pretty certain that Oriole was at the Fishers’ with the Creep and definitely in several kinds of danger, Summer didn’t run down the path to burst into the trailer, breathless and shaking. Instead she deliberately slowed her pace, letting Sparrow skip on ahead. Sparrow skipped across the clearing, stopped to pick up something and clattered up the steps to the trailer’s door. As Summer reached the bottom stair, she heard Sparrow say, “Hi, Oriole. Look at the pretty rock I found.” Oriole was at home after all. At home and alone. She was sewing. Sitting crosslegged on the foam rubber, she was embroidering the yoke of a dress she was making for Sparrow.
