Ryan Cornell remembered. He’d been raised in the verdant Berkshires and knew well the joy of the leaf pile on the lawn, the delight of running and jumping and vanishing in its midst, then sitting back to breathe in that incomparable smell when the pile had been raked to the curb and lit. At times like these, he missed that simple life, so pure, so straightforward, so filled with love. Sighing, he opened the window farther and leaned out, inhaling the fresh air; its scent was a poignant reminder of all he’d lost. Before long would come winter, with its snow and slush and mess. How he hated that time, coming in tired and cold at the end of the day to a dark and empty house. It was just as well Tom was back. It had been a year, about time he got a place of his own. Perhaps he’d enjoy city life. More action, more diversion, less time to brood on all he couldn’t change. A movement beneath him caught his eye, the bob of a thick auburn ponytail as a slender figure in a sweat shirt, shorts and running shoes moved down the front walk to the street then looked to either side before breaking into an easy jog and crossing to the river path.
