“I’ve always hated January,” she explains to the fireplace, where flotillas of cobwebs float dreamily in the corners. Pulling a stack of folders from a box, she looks around for someplace to put it and settles for the top of another box. “When I was little, I stood at my window and begged it to go away. But it never listened to me. It just stayed January day after day until I thought I’d go crazy.”
So what is she doing here, unpacking moving boxes three weeks after Christmas? What sane person would pack up and move house this time of year? The sky is a gray blanket outside her window, the morning light dim and unpromising. “It’s all your fault,” she grumbles at the wide-planked oak floors. She squints menacingly at the wainscoting, shoots a suspicious glance at the built-in shelves. “If i
