William Turner’s dog died three months after his wife. Some kind of cancer snuck up on it. She’d died in a car accident coming to pick him up from the airport. He waited there for hours, first irritated then furious at her for being late.
He thought about selling the house, about taking his sister on that trip to Ireland she’d always talked about, about doing nothing but sitting in his chair, smoking inside, and staring out through the front window.
It’d snowed during the night. He thought it was still too early, too warm, for that, but it stayed.