Robert had always said that the truth was the only thing durable enough to survive a winter.
“What happens now?” Margaret asked, her voice barely louder than the hum of the tires on the asphalt.
Mary turned the wheel, guiding the car back toward Briar Lane, toward the house with the wobbly dining table and the pencil marks on the doorframe that still belonged entirely to Margaret.
“Now,” Mary said, a faint, sharp glint in her eyes, “we let them find out what practical really means.”
