The morning light was still gray and thin when I stepped out onto the back porch.
The gravel in the narrow driveway crunched under my sneakers as I walked toward the side of the house. A damp smell of decaying maple leaves hung in the cold air, clinging to my wool cardigan. I stood before the gray metal box of the electric meter, squinting through my reading glasses at the digital display.
The small black numbers on the screen cycled through their sequence, flashing numbers that meant very little without the utility company’s manual.
I followed the thick metal conduit pipe down to where it entered the foundation, checking for any cracks or loose fittings. The concrete was solid, and the wire going toward the garage showed no signs of wear.
The garage wall itself was silent, the old cedar siding holding the moisture from the morning mist. I ran my palm along the rough wood near the outdoor outlet box, but the plastic cover was shut tight.
There was no heat, no smell of burning plastic, and no stray wires hanging from the eaves.
I turned back toward the main house, my eyes tracing the overhead line that ran from the utility pole near the street. It hung high and clear, untouched by the branches of my old oak tree.
The silent meter kept spinning its invisible wheel, counting units of power I had apparently used while sleeping.
Across the street, Frank’s garage door was open, revealing the yellow nose of his old Buick, but there was no sign of him. I stood there in the quiet yard, feeling small under the wide, gray Ohio sky.
I walked back inside to the kitchen, the warmth of the house doing nothing to ease the chill in my fingers.
The landline phone on the wall rang three times before I reached it, the cord stretching as I pulled the receiver to my ear.
