Even in summer, the grass green and damp, even while he watered the front lawn, Randall felt his mind drift to images of winter nights in Cambridge, nine years ago. He could feel her mittened hand in his. He could see her dark hair peek out from her wool cap. He could see the snow falling gently outside the window. He could see her smile, feel the warmth of her dorm room, her sweet trust in him. He could hear her sweet sighs.

He felt Angela come up behind him and take the hose from his hand.

“You don’t just stand there,” she said. “You’re making puddles. You’re supposed to spray it around.”

“What’s wrong with puddles?” …

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