The presence of his attention is like the pressure of a thumb. She doesn't have to be looking to be aware of it hanging there, his face a persistent blur at the edge of her vision.

In reply, Wysteria cinches the wrap of her arms tighter. The chickens peck at the pavers. Feathers are ruffled. The day is gray and drab and no sun reaches this small walled garden. The doors to the house remain closed.

"I am not angry," she says. And then allows, "At you."