Sitting in darkness, breath smoking, he took in the ramshackle brick row houses in a seedy section of Portland. Harrison eased the car to the curb and killed the headlights. Setting the glass in the basin of the sink, he reached for the car keys on the counter, hesitating once as if to change his mind. The water swam uneasily inside him, threatening to come back up. The seemed to stretch his skin, and poured a second glass.

He loosened his tie to relieve the tightness within him that seemed to stretch his skin, and poured a second glass. Harrison nodded, as if to tell himself everything would be all right. It was full dark outside, and his waxen reflection stared back from the window straight ahead. In the kitchen, standing over the sink, Harrison poured himself a glass of water and tossed it back. He was a man living a normal life, a man with a beautiful family. Over time, as one peaceful year replaced another, he’d eventually convinced himself he was a man who’d outrun the secrets of his past. There had been a time, fifteen years ago, when he froze at the sound of the phone ringing, the seconds pounding out like drums as he waited for the voice on the other end to speak. He shut his eyes, his mind unwillingly traveling back. He realized the phone in his hand was slick with sweat, his posture rigid. It had been a long time since he’d heard the voice, and hearing it now could only mean something had gone wrong. The voice floated through Harrison, a ghost from his past, leaving him bone cold. Shallow, rapid breathing sounded in his ear before a voice broke the static. Harrison picked it up halfway through the second ring, expecting to hear the voice of his daughter’s best friend, who had the annoying habit of calling at the latest possible hour the night before homework was due. To drown out the wind’s piercing cry, Harrison punched the remote, turning up Bononcini’s “Ombra mai fu.” Then he set another log on the fire, asking himself, not for the first time, if he would have bought the farmhouse had he known how much fuel it took to warm one little room, let alone all nine. With a storm blowing in, he wouldn’t be surprised to find the countryside frozen in icy whiteness by morning.

A furious spring wind had hurled itself against the farmhouse all night, howling and whistling, causing the shutters to slam against the clapboards with a repetitive bang! bang! bang! The calendar may have been turned to March, but Harrison knew better than to think spring was on its way. THE FINGERS OF THE THORN-APPLE TREE CLAWED at the windowpane behind Harrison Grey, and he dog-eared his page, no longer able to read through the racket.

Crescendo by becca fitzpatrick