The van backed up slowly, its tires spitting gravel, and turned around in the narrow road.

I watched the red taillights disappear into the dark pine trees, leaving only the sound of cicadas in the air.

I walked back to the house, the empty gravel driveway suddenly feeling very wide.

When I entered the kitchen, the smell of stale grease hung in the air.

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out the package of eight-to-a-pack hot dogs.

They looked cold, pale, and incredibly cheap in the bright light of the fridge.

I dumped them into a glass bowl.

“Is that what we’re eating?”

I turned around to see Juliette standing in the kitchen doorway.

She had changed into a white silk blouse that looked far too expensive for a country backyard.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m heating them up now.”

Juliette sniffed, looking around the kitchen with an air of absolute superiority.

“I suppose some people have very simple tastes,” she said, checking her watch.

“They do,” I said, turning on the stove.

She tapped her manicured nails against the doorframe, her eyes darting toward the front hallway.