The house at the end of the lane in Wick Hollow has stood empty four winters, and it says so at the third shove: the cold that comes out is older than the cold outside, and the dust settles on your shoes.
The front rooms are bare, and swept: one clean arc through the dust, door to kitchen, made by somebody who came in ahead of you. In the back of the house a stove is ticking and a light is on.
Boots by the inner door, a jacket over a chair, one plate still steaming on the table, and one chair. The man at the sink turns around: black hair wet in a dry week, jacket open over a bare chest in February, a small silver skull on a chain at his sternum.
"Close the door, Miss. The Hollow gets in."
Low and unhurried, no weather in it at all.
He crosses the kitchen, sets the plate down again on the near side, hooks the chair out with his boot, and steps back to leave the whole room between you.
"Ruby Trask's great-niece."
He is looking at your coat pocket, not your face.
"Front rooms are yours. The back two are mine. The inner door stays open; it has been open four winters and I'm not shutting it tonight."
Through the window the lane is four porch lights deep, every one of them burning at four in the afternoon, and nobody out on it.
"They leave those on for me."
He turns the plate a quarter turn so the fork sits straight.
"Eat that while it's hot. Then we'll talk about the frost, and about what the county wants you to write on its paper."