Agnes Pelletier sat up in the feather bed she and Jakey had shared for forty-two years before his dying, startled wide awake by the absence of sound.

It'd been raining steady, the last three days, the mercury sitting just above 32. The air was too warm to freeze the water as it fell, according to the weather fella on the radio. So they had rain instead of a regular Maine January snowstorm. Some towns, there'd been floods. Up on the Interstate, the radio told her, cars and trucks slid off a roadway sheeted in ice, for the rain froze where it struck.

Down on the Wimsy Neck Road, at Pelletier's farm, Agnes slipped and damn' near broke her leg walking down the drive to the mailbox day before yesterday. Yesterday, there'd been a special announcement on the radio: The Post Office had canceled rural route delivery, due to conditions. Agnes had already decided not to risk another walk to the mailbox.

Fine time to take a fall, she'd told herself; the way that rain's coming down, you'd be froze flat to the drive in a second.

But the rain had stopped; and there was a rosy glow showing around the edges of the shuttered window. Agnes pushed back the quilts and eased out of the feather bed. Sunshine! Now, there was a welcome difference.