The sharpness of the overhead sun made her squint. She noticed that the macadam road was taking on a black appearance as oil began to rise to the surface. That was one good point about the place. A hard road right alongside the house. The thing she liked next best was the location. The house was set just high enough on a knoll that from the living room she could take in a scene of rolling green dotted with suburban homes. Folks were coming closer every year. She remembered when there hadn't been a house around except the one that went with the Blough farm across the state road.

Her gaze shifted to the hay baler in the lower field. The machine went the length of the field dropping bales with exact regularity as though giving birth to small match boxes. Although she pretended not to, she was watching Wayne's friend as he went out to watch the baler. When she was sure he was definitely on his way, she turned and began to wipe the stove. Her hands moved gently and lovingly over the stark whiteness, lingered around the push-buttons and with painstaking care cleaned and rubbed the chrome trim until all signs of cooking vanished. Suddenly she turned to the boy drying dishes at the sink.

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