Then I snuck out the back door, into stinging cold. Dry snowflakes swirled, rising and falling, dusting the ground with icy down, glowing amber in the streetlight's glare. Slow-motion flakes making the air seem liquid. I walked past a stack of cured tamarack. My fingers froze to the metal gate. I gently closed the gate behind me, and lost a film of skin to frigid metal.... Through murky shadows cast by eaves of the garage, I slinked up to the window. I peered past flimsy lace curtains parted several inches. Two night-lights along the workbench gave off plenty of light. Shell was about twelve feet away, back toward me. She was sitting on the front fender of Elaine's red Fiat Spider, arms spread behind her, palms pressed flat, pleated skirt spread over the hood. She propped a bare heel up on the fender, knee swaying.... Ben must've been kneeling on something. His head wasn't much higher than Shell's. He kept looking down. Behind him was a rack of guns. All the deer heads mounted along the wall seemed to watch Ben bag his latest trophy. Arching her back, Shell reached up and locked her hands behind his neck. I heard whimpering. He looked up, mouth hanging open... and I swear he looked right at me. I don't know if he saw me. He didn't act like he saw me. I almost knocked on the window, just to see Shell fly off that car. But I thought: Why spoil it for her, or embarrass her to death? The little girl simply got out of control. Shell usually controls her pretty well.

So I just stood there shivering... watching the little girl ride for heaven....