I’m socked in behind Super Bowl parade traffic. Here is the conclusion, for those who’ve followed.
By the time Rachel reached her destination, the snow and ice had stopped their onslaught. Perhaps the Earth had given up; perhaps Rachel had outlasted her, difficult as it is to grasp such a thing – that the swell of angst in the soul of an ordinary, insignificant suburban housewife could rise to outlast such a powerful, natural force. Yet, here she was, snaking her mommy car through a tiny subdivision of Pueblo, hair wet and disheveled, stuck to her wind-chapped cheeks and forehead, grey cardigan moist and itchy and clinging to her body.
Her car found its way to a coul-de-sac and the driveway of a quaint two-story, color of canary and shutters in white. The house had seen a fresh coat of paint since she’d seen it last, but its shade hadn’t changed; someone was wise enough to know that yellow was its best…
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