She scrapes snow off her soles and onto the grate. She peels off both shoes together, one with each hand. She hits them against each other. Little cold beads escape from the rubber heels.

Inside smells like a heater that hasn’t been turned on in a long time. It’s all the bits of dust, fragments of hair, clothing, skin, that have settled on the filaments, suddenly finding themselves cooked. The smell of old, burning skin. She sets her sack by the mantel in the front room.