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an angel food cake and a pint of vanilla ice cream and found her in the canned goods aisle buying soups. She had saltines,
     peanut butter, and English muffins in her arms. She placed her items in the cart.
    “How about some milk or juice?” he asked. “A steak or hamburger meat? A tomato?”
    “You my daddy now?”
    “You’re older than me.” He left the cart and returned with a chicken for roasting. “You know how to cook this?”
    “What do you think?”
    “I honestly don’t know.”
    “I can do a bird.”
    He put the chicken into the cart. He went down another aisle and came back with a bag of potatoes, a plastic bag of string
     beans, and a carton of orange juice.
    “OK, enough,” she said.
    “You don’t want anything sweet? Cookies or something?”
    “The old people have enough Devil Dogs in their cupboards to turn us all into diabetics. Besides, I don’t like the stuff.”
    Sheila didn’t join him at the checkout counter. She was standing by the automatic doors when he went through with the cart.
    “Thanks,” she said. And then immediately ruined it. “Am I going to have to put out for you?”
    Webster stopped the cart. “Your view of human nature is warped.”
    “And you have such a happy view of human nature?” she asked.
    “I usually see people in distress. They’re pretty happy if they live.”
    “Lucky you.”
    They returned in silence to the blue Cape. When Webster parked the cruiser, he got out and handed Sheila her bag of groceries.
    “You wanna come in?” she asked. Almost shy, but not quite.
    “No,” he said.
    Though he did.
    He handed her a ten-dollar bill. “I didn’t buy you cigarettes. I figured I’d let you walk for them.”
    She snatched the ten and headed for the house. He liked the way she walked—taking her time, as if she weren’t freezing in
     her leather jacket. She opened the door and went in without so much as a glance in his direction.
    She was sexy and beautiful, and Webster wondered if he could smooth out the rough edges. Though maybe it was the rough edges
     that he liked.
    Webster didn’t want to go home yet, even with the melting ice cream in the trunk. Instead, he drove up a steep dirt road to
     the ridge where he hoped one day to buy a piece of land and build a house. Fast-moving clouds made slashes of bright light
     on the hills below. In the distance, the Green Mountains had turned purple. Someday he would build a house with a large window
     pointed at those mountains. When he wasn’t at work, he’d sit behind that window and look out. The earth and the mountains
     were fluid, changing every second.
    In that house, Webster thought, he would feel free.
    For the first time since he’d been driving to the spot, Webster pictured a woman in the house with him. Not Sheila necessarily,
     but someone.

H e drove by her place every night for a week, each time slowing to see if he could spot her through the windows of the glassed-in
     porch. Once he saw a moving shape and thought about pulling over, but he knew he wasn’t ready yet. Besides, he often had his
     uniform on, which might spook her.
    On Saturday, he stopped. He expected lights to blaze. He guessed that neither she nor the old people had many visitors. The
     house remained dark apart from a dim light upstairs and a flickering blue from a television downstairs. He walked to the back
     door and knocked.
    The overhead went on, and she opened the door. She wore a navy sweater over a pair of jeans. Her socks were bright red, and
     her hair was wet. The bruises on her face had all but faded.
    “I came by to do the dishes,” he said.
    She flipped on the kitchen light and gestured with her arm. “Be my guest,” she said.
    Webster walked into a kitchen that if not spotless was at least tidied. No clutter on the counter, no overflowing trash.
    “Guess I’m too late,” he said, relieved that he didn’t have to make his way to the bottom of the neglected sink.
    “Couldn’t stand it,” she