I took the trash bag out to the back porch half an hour later, still wearing the new boots to test the fit.
They were warm, the thick lining holding my feet snug against the draft that always blew up through the floorboards.
Mrs. Bell was standing on her side of the low porch railing, shaking out a heavy red welcome mat.
She stopped and peered over the rims of her reading glasses, her gaze dropping straight to my feet.
“Those look like they will hold up to the salt,” Mrs. Bell said, her dry, matter-of-fact voice cutting through the cold.
“My mother said they came from a church box,” I said, watching her face closely.
Mrs. Bell gave the red mat one last sharp snap against the wooden railing.
“Someone must be watching over you, Fiona,” she said.
“Do you know which church has boxes like this?” I asked, leaning against the cold post.
She looked down the quiet street, where the streetlights were just beginning to flicker on in the early dusk.
