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Lottie sits alone at the dining room table. She lets a rush of air out of her lungs. From her chair she can see the abandoned furniture in the living room. She has dropped the opened newspaper onto one of the chairs, though she can remember doing no such thing. It seems to float there, tented over the chair like a huge bird just landing on a nest. In a minute, she thinks, I'll have to get up and pick that up, start to work. Abruptly she feels a tug of revulsion at herself for being this kind of person. For moving cowlike, thickly, through chores as she has all this summer-puttering-while real sorrows, real tragedies, play themselves out around her. How has she let this happen to her? Then the kitchen explodes in a crash that dwindles to the sound of a few things rolling to the corners of the room. Lottie's heart has already seized as she moves to the doorway. In time to see Ryan turn and bend and clear the table too, everything flying and smashing.
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