The woman is sitting prim in an old winged armchair, legs crossed and fingers intertwined over one knee. She leans forwards and watches the boy on the floor, still in his bright red sweater. He's stacking colourful bricks until they tumble, then he giggles and claps his hands before starting over. "He's unusual you know," she simpers, "most kids cry when the bricks fall, or they want you to come help them." Then she turns her amber eyes on me, "you can go now."
She sat with all the grace of a sack of wet cement. Her body seemed to conform to the shape of the easy chair, even her face seemed to slacken and sink as if pulled by invisible strings gently downward. Something that might happen when you are not alive. Was she seeing dead people?
Snow did not speak to the woman. She was in her o
