The blue door of Tara’s house glows in the sunrise. The sight is hopeful—almost. Since yesterday, the color has faded a shade or two, but at least the paint isn’t peeling. Not yet, anyway.
“Does it look like a full-on infestation to you?” Malcolm whispers.
I can’t tell, not from this distance. The grass sports patches of brown that weren’t there yesterday. Several of the roses droop, heads bowed as if in mourning, petals scattered along the ground.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It may not bother until we’re committed.”
That would trap us inside.
We continue to stare at the house, putting off that moment of commitment, probably because our plan is sketchy, at best. I carry a percolator and everything to brew coffee, but I don’t think we’ll need it. In this case, I think it will be the samova
