Chapter 34

Neve

I hear the truck before I see it.

I’m at the kitchen sink at a quarter to twelve, elbow-deep in dishwater, when the sound of an engine comes up the long gravel drive. Big and diesel and a little rough, the way only one truck in this pack has ever sounded. I know it before I lift my head. I knew it when I was eight years old and listened for it every night from my bedroom window.

Ray’s truck.

I don’t move.

Through the window over the sink, I watch it pull into the lot. It’s covered in road salt and mud to the windows, the bed piled with gear under a tarp. It rolls to a stop in front of the porch. The engine dies.

For a long moment, nobody gets out.

Then the passenger door opens.

She’s smaller than I remember. That’s the first thing. In my memory, my mother is tall, and strong, and sure of everything. The woman who climbs down from the cab is slight, in a heavy coat, her dark hair threaded with gray and pulled back in a loose