Will says, “That'd be pushing it,” just as Todd overlaps, “Piece of cake! Gives us three whole months.”

        Barking wakes me. Barking? I wrestle to get my bearings. Oh, I'm here — Will's and my room crammed with bed, sofa, rockers, desk, swivel chair, and more, all draped in clumps of clothes. Some of my dresses cower on their hangers for dear life, as if they've come to the wrong party.
        Our room would never feature in a magazine, not even as a before picture. Raggedy remnants of curtain billow in windows that won't close. Tattered wallpaper flutters over holes exposing silvery lath and unobstructed views of sky. Scabs of bald linoleum hit-or-miss over rough floorboards. Nobody goes barefoot in here, I resolve.
        I check my watch: 9:30 already. Damn! I'd wanted to be first up so I could make a festive breakfast. Reaching to the floor for the clothes I'd shed the night before, I see two enormous spiders scuttling from the pile. I squeal and yank up my legs. But, I reason, the spiders are aiming away, not toward. Shaking everything with vigorous snaps, I finish dressing.
        I kneel at the window, leaning on the sill, rubber-banding my ponytail. Chilly, but oh, what a glorious morning! Our hundred-ten acres with our lush foothills are propped against our brilliant sky like painted scenery.
        Below me, the shining top of Regina's head is almost obscured by tall weeds, but her voice rings clear as she breaststrokes through, calling to Clayton and Garth hunkering near the dry creek-bed with their G.I. Joes. On the other side of the rutted dirt drive, Will and Todd pace the cornfield with a tape measure stretched between them. Oblivious, slapping her thigh and whinnying, Lizzie gallops past on her imaginary steed. Out of sight, Missy yips with rapture.

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