Hannah, 91, sees a young boy, about four, burst into the kitchen, peel off his jacket, snow and ice flying every which way, and clomp up to his room. He doesn't say a word to her. Not a word. She feels a pang, a sense of loss. It's as if he is only a flicker of memory, an image she cannot touch. But the boy is surely real. He is.... The boy's name is.... She must do better with names.

Startled, she sees the scene repeat itself—the snowy boy comes into the kitchen again, this time shouting "Wait for me. Hey, wait for me!" Has her mind gone queer and prophetic? She shudders, recalling an old gypsy woman—or was she an Indian? Long skirt, dark skin, bad teeth. Foretold the future—or uncovered the past. One of those scary Indians living down by the river. "Don't ever speak to that creature— she's not right in the head." Her mother's voice, clear as if from the next room.

"Did the twins come in?" Ella asks from the next room. She has been setting the table for supper and comes to the door with napkins and silver in her hand. She looks distracted this evening, a strand of moist hair across her brow. Twins? Of course. Ella's twins. Foolish thing to do, dressing those two just alike. A confusion for everyone. But Ella, poor girl, has her foolish side. Agreeing to marry a man like Ike, for one. What gets into a woman to do a thing like that? Him late to supper again. No regard for kith or kin—none.