But these few weeks apart have changed him. This short exile from her life has washed the color from Heron’s face, weakened the way he stands in the doorway even. Maggie doesn’t know how to make him hear it, feel it, without him crumbling to dust on the doorstep. Instead, they stand. Maggie outside, Heron in. The narrow porch between them, like the set of a strange play.
