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In the wind of the coming storm, a leaf-bare branch of the gumball tree scratched against the bedroom window like an animal desperate for its owner to open the door before the heavy rain began to fall. The untrimmed tips of the branch scraped the glass with soft, almost delicate or shy, strokes. Grandma slept through this desperate plea. With the sash lock clicked, the window would not budge regardless of any force pressed against it. As the wind increased, the rasp grew more frequent if not still muted, until, all at once, the thick collar of the branch lurched at the glass with a smack that startled the dozing old woman.

Grandma fluttered her eyes. Lightning in the distance lit the low ceiling of storm clouds above the forest. Thick drops of rain began to patter against the roof. Grandma stood at the locked window. Leaves scrambled across the lawn. The rolling storm clouds pushed downward onto the thatched roof of the cottage as the now closer lightning revealed what had been hidden in the darkness. Grandma shivered more from the visual cue of the storm than from physical cold. She closed the curtains and then her eyes. Within moments, she was back asleep.

The next morning, the trunk of the gumball tree opened like a bloom. A direct lightning strike split the trunk into four nearly equal parts that fell away from each other like the petals of the yellow evening primrose Grandma planted along the gravel walkway from the front door to the wooden gate that opened to the forest path. After tying her shawl around her shoulders, Grandma opened the window to the clean air that came after heavy rain. In the kitchen, she boiled a pot of ephedra tea. Sitting in the breakfast nook of her kitchen, Grandma sipped her tea. Her sinuses opened. Her pupils dilated. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly let her chest relax. Colors grew vivid and sounds crisper. Grandma smiled. She was ready for today when her granddaughter would visit for the night and bring the dandelion wine Grandma’s son fermented in the cellar.

Grandma’s plan for the day was to clean the yard, have lunch, take a nap, prepare a snack for her granddaughter, take another nap, then welcome her guest with a favorite supper of omelet and custard for dessert. She raked the gumballs, fallen leaves, and broken branches into a cairn-like mound in the center of the yard. Tomorrow, Grandma thought, she and her granddaughter would haul the debris to the stone back wall and toss everything over the jagged capstones into a ditch that led to a stream below the cottage plot. As she swept the spare trimmings from the gravel walkway, a branch broke from beyond the bend in the forest path. Grandma paused. Was her little darling early? The pupils of the old woman’s eyes had returned to normal by now and the dappled shade of the trees along the path camouflaged all movements. She looked then returned to her work. Echoes of distant rifle fire from hunters gave her pause. Maybe she would have a rabbit for the evening meal.

The last of the dark storm clouds drifted eastward. A light rain fell. Then the wind shook the rain from the trees. Grandma thought of rushing inside. Before she could finish her thought the clouds dissipated into blue sky and blinding sunlight. Grandma shaded her eyes. The swaying tops of the trees reminded Grandma of the rising and of the falling of the waves of the ocean, which she had never seen. Then there was another snap of a branch from the copse of trees on the near side of the forest path.

“Is someone there?” Grandma squinted through the sunlight. She checked the lock on the wooden gate. The birds began their post-torrent song. A squirrel scampered across the stone wall. It looked at Grandma, chirped, then startled at something down the path. Another chirp and soon all the animals of the forest were in a tizzy. That is when he stepped into the open.

“Oh,” Grandma said. She knew him, one of the men who linger in the town square late into the night until the watchman makes his rounds. One of the men who disappears for days, weeks, sometimes months, only to reappear worse for the wear and meaner. One of the men the sheriff simply could not get rid of. He nodded in greeting. His eyes were like a steel wolf trap: the lashes on his wide lids, the offset jaws; his yellow iris, the base plate; the narrowed pupils, the pan. His own will was the coil spring. Grandma clutched the handle of her broom. Her knuckles glowed white with her grip. The man and the old woman gazed at each other. He stepped forward. Then again. Then again. Grandma scurried across the gravel walkway to her cottage and pushed the front door shut against the sound of footsteps soft as paw pads across the neatly swept stones.