The far western fringes of a hurricane have brushed against central Virginia, and Jack spends the entire morning and early afternoon dashing in and out of the van, covering his packages better than himself. On the radio, they’re calling for three inches, the whole fading month’s worth in one miserable day. By 2 o’clock, he’s been soaked for hours. He’s not even fit for the casual and familiar company of the Speakeasy Diner, and he’s been putting off lunch at home until he’s sure the mail has come. He makes a run for the front door, taking off as much of his waterlogged clothing as he can in the foyer, then throwing his raincoat around his bare legs. “Wow,” Shannon says, coming out from her room, trailed by Wesley, who growls, then recognizes him and leaps up to lick his dripping hand. “Tough day to be out. They closed school at noon. Because of flooding, they said.” Shannon looks at his pants on the floor and shakes her head at the general ungainliness of adults. Five minutes later, he comes out of the bedroom in jeans and an old, navy-blue T-shirt.
