October’s swift entrance dismayed Beck. No green was left on the deciduous trees; they flamed and raged with colour. Leaves, tugged by the wind, detached from branches and cartwheeled to the grass where they lay spent, like pointy-edged pieces of an autumn puzzle. Spring, and then winter; a season was lost. He had promised to help his parents pack up the cabin, but he would have preferred to stay on the farm with Melissa. Washed-out, leaden remains of a storm that had broken to the east trundled across the sky. Purple light filtered into the cabin, and sun burst through a hole in the clouds. Chopping herbs and mumbling under her breath, his mother shot him a meaningful glance. She was itching, Beck could tell, to lecture him. He joined her in the kitchen and ignored her while he made tea.
