Marilyn Thornhill stepped into the ring of firelight, a mug of something steaming cradled in both hands. She wore those rain boots again—yellow, with little cartoon frogs on the toes. Her glasses caught the orange glow as she smiled.

She hesitated at the edge of the log, as if asking permission without actually saying the words. The firelight flickered across her face, and for a moment, something in her expression seemed off—too still, too measured.