Nothing fills the need, not even my bread, my roses, or the volunteer shifts at the library where the children roll their eyes when I suggest Dickens. You hear things in that silence.

The groan of old beams and the drip-drip-drip of water through a roof that I’ve been too poor to restore are two ways the house whispers its degradation.

I used to lie awake throughout every storm, gripping my quilt and gazing up at the ceiling. Would it finally give way tonight? Would my shingles be damp when I woke up?

I finally managed to find a small roofing company this spring and scraped together enough money for repairs. They appeared to be a little harsh. There were men with tattoos, cigarettes hanging down, and what Richard would have called “trouble in steel-toe boots.”

But don’t judge me, Evelyn, I told