In fact, it rained on and off all the way from the northern California border. But that hardly qualifies as a surprise. When is it not raining in Portland? • • • When she opened the door, Isabelle Duncan looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. If not weeks. She looked to be fifty-something, with hip-length hair of pure white. The circles under her eyes looked nearly black in comparison to the rest of her pale and pasty skin. Her house smelled distinctly of the three large, aged dogs that circled my legs, wagging feebly. “You look tired,” I said. “So do you.” “Oh. Yeah. I guess I must. It’s a long drive.” “Come in,” she said. “Come in.” I had to walk slowly and carefully so as not to trip over the dogs, who seemed intent on reading fascinating smells on my pant legs. “Where did you drive from?”
