The sun has pushed the fog out, leaving every surface covered in a thin layer of dampness, as if the world is waking up sweaty from a bad dream. Small American flags line the driveway. A wreath of red, white, and blue ribbons hangs from the door. Curtains on windows flanking the door remain closed. The house looks as if no one’s home. Maybe Meriwether and her dad are sleeping in. Maybe they went away. From the back of their house, though, I hear a sound. At first I can’t tell what it is. But it’s not like someone breaking in or anything. In fact, it sounds more like yard work. Yard work? I tiptoe down the driveway. The gate of the carport is unlocked, and the gate hangs open. I walk through and into the backyard. For a moment seeing the backyard takes away my breath. Meriwether’s mother had turned the far corner of the yard into a magical area, with tiny white lights strung into dwarf trees. Last summer I helped them dig a hole large enough for a plastic pond, complete with fountain and some goldfish they’d bought on sale.
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