MASON LOOKS GOLDEN-RED IN THE light of the sun coming up on a late January day. Not much is stirring; the quiet is like a blanket. The snow is melting, and birds hopping about in it have made hieroglyphical indentations. Here and there, on people’s front lawns, are various-size snowmen, listing in one direction or another, like carrot-nosed drunks welcoming visitors. This day will be even warmer than yesterday, never mind the deeper march into winter; mittens and scarves will be left behind on playgrounds.
Outside Sugarbutter bakery, a man loads bread onto a truck. Newspapers are thrown onto porches with a satisfying thwack. Nurses change shifts, cops, too. Roberto starts the coffeemakers at the Henhouse, the grill gets heated up.
Abby and Jason lie awake in their bed, but feign sleep so as not to disturb each other so early in the morning. They will have a busy day today; it’s the grand opening of Menagerie Bookshop, the store they’re opening, complete with dog, cat, parakeet, and goldfish. Lincoln brought Hope into bed with him in the night, as he does every night, and the dog snores her funny snore. Monica and Tiny sleep curled around each other, wedding rings bright on their hands. Iris is up early in her kitchen, preparing for the “Lemon-ganza” class she is teaching this afternoon: four women and one man will be making lemon bars, lemon meringue pie, and gingerbread with an exquisite warm lemon-butter sauce.
Lucille’s alarm clock, stationed now at Iris’s bedside, glows in the relative darkness, but soon the moving hands will be clearly seen and there will be no need for artificial light.