She looked at the fogged window. At the blurry shape of the maple tree she'd planted when the kids were little. At the street where she'd watched mail trucks and school buses and, once, a neighbor's runaway golden retriever.
The kid—maybe twenty, with a faded apron and the look of someone who'd rather be anywhere else—shrugged. "Probably gotta replace the whole thing." can double pane windows be repaired
Arlene stood beside him as the sun broke through the clouds. For the first time in weeks, she could see the oak tree again. Every branch. Every last stubborn leaf. She looked at the fogged window
That night, Arlene sat in her armchair with a blanket over her knees. The fog in the window caught the streetlight, turned it into a soft, glowing orb. She thought about her husband, Frank. How he'd insisted on double-pane windows when they built the addition. "Good insulation," he'd said. "They'll last." The kid—maybe twenty, with a faded apron and