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the shed door, ensured the patio furniture was anchored, and felt a familiar, comforting sense of control. She was prepared. She was safe. She was just about to settle in with a book when a crack of thunder shook the house, rattling the china in the cupboard. Rain began to fall in heavy, erratic sheets, turning the garden into a blurred watercolor painting. Through the downpour, she saw a flicker of movement next door. Robert was out in the yard, frantic. He was trying to drag a large, heavy-looking tarp over a pile of gardening supplies, but the wind was having none of it. It caught the fabric like a sail, whipping it around and nearly knocking him off balance. He looked desperate, his hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes soaked through in seconds. Helen watched, her hand hovering over the window latch. She knew she should stay inside. She had done her chores. She was safe. But the sight of him, struggling against the elements, struck a chord of memory. She remembered the time Arthur had tried to fix the roof during a gale, refusing to listen to reason, determined to prove that he could still handle the house. She had been so angry then, and so terrified. With a groan of frustration that was directed entirely at herself, Helen grabbed her heavy raincoat and shoved her feet into her boots. She didn't think; she just acted. She stepped out onto the porch, the wind immediately trying to steal her breath, and navigated the slick grass toward the fence. "Robert!" she shouted, her voice barely audible over the roar of the wind. He didn't hear her. He was still wrestling with the tarp, which had now wrapped itself around a rose bush, creating a tangled mess of plastic and thorns. Helen reached the fence, grabbed a loose edge of the tarp, and pulled. Her sudden weight helped, and the tarp slumped, allowing Robert to finally pin it down with a heavy stone. They both stood there for a moment, chest heaving, rain streaming down their faces. "What are you doing?" Robert yelled, his eyes wide with surprise. "You’re getting soaked!" "So are you!" she shouted back. "You’ll catch your death of cold out here! Why are you trying to cover this now?" "It’s my late wife’s collection!" he bellowed, gesturing toward the pile beneath the tarp. "I couldn't let it get ruined! It’s all I have left of her in the garage!" The words seemed to hang in the air, suspended between them, even as the rain hammered down. Helen felt the sharp edge of her annoyance vanish, replaced by a sudden, hollow ache. She looked at the tarp, then back at Robert. The man who had seemed so boisterous, so determined to change everything about his new home, was just trying to protect a ghost. "The wind is picking up!" she yelled, realizing the storm was intensifying. "Get inside! My porch is covered. You can wait it out there!" Robert hesitated, looking at his precious pile, but another gust of wind nearly swept him off his feet. He nodded, once, and followed her across the slick grass. They scrambled up the steps to her porch, breathless and shivering. Helen fumbled for her keys, unlocked the door, and ushered him into the entryway. The silence of the house was jarring after the chaos of the storm. They stood on the mat, dripping water onto the hardwood floor, neither of them quite sure what to say. Robert looked smaller now, his shoulders hunched, the bravado completely stripped away by