Spark
The beam of Ray’s headlights had yet to crest the brow of the salted road at the end of their property. Again, he was late. Wanda leaned against the lounge window, the lamps turned off behind her so she could see through the snow as it came again, so soon after yesterday’s white-out. But the thin thread of the Volvo’s headlights had yet to split the black, and after a while her eyes hurt.
Somewhere in the house Spitball heard another rat and began to bark. Wanda hoped he wouldn’t behave so when Ray eventually showed up. On the weekends when Ray wasn’t readying for a flight south to Anchorage, or just returning from one, he would take his rifle and the dog, and they’d set up in the barn, taking potshots. To Wanda it seemed wasteful; her grandfather had once told her of long winters
