When Bennett wakes up, it is snowing. She is in her own bed and she can see the big fat flakes drifting lazily past her window on the third floor. She lays there for a moment in the gray darkness, wondering many things.

What time is it? How long have I been sleeping? Is there pudding?

She rolls over onto her stomach and kicks her heels up to her backside a few times, mentally shuffling the contents of her pantry at last glance.

She’s pretty sure that there was one last box of fudge pudding in there. She remembers finding it before leaving last week. She’d been whipping up some cinnamon rolls for Henry, an old guy who went to her church. His wife had died six months ago and he’d shown up the day after her funeral looking like someone had deflated him. Bennett ha...

Please subscribe to keep reading.