The wind kicked over the mailbox. It shook the awning from
its moorings. It snapped a branch into a window which let loose Milton’s
papers, covering the yard in a premature snowfall. He had moved the desk there
for the light.
In his pajamas, Milton padded down the stairs to make coffee
as he had for the last three months (finally having grown accustomed to the French Press), when
he noticed a chill in the air, a lingering breeze. He stared blankly in the
direction of the tree limb protruding into his makeshift office. He marveled
how the world had shifted overnight. Milton wasn’t sure if his first obligation
should be to the house, which he had promised to care for over the summer or
his work, which was his work.
Retrieving the papers, some of which made it as far as the
pond, seemed endless. He had been at it for an hour or maybe two when he found
himself deeply hungry. Breakfast had been a muffin eaten while putting on his
clothes. Even though it was only 10:15 he needed the sustenance of a second
breakfast.
