A FLOCK OF SPARROWS. Helen Foster Reed

to cut another slice off her, or turn that little pooch into an ice sculpture.”

      “Poor Carly,” Maggie sneered. “Missing old Walter so much, she’s texting and grinning every time she thinks no one is looking. Haven’t you seen that?”

      I guess I hadn’t. The only time I’d noticed a phone in her hand was when the rest of us had carried our things upstairs.

      “I’ll bet she’s having thumb sex texting some boy toy she’s keeping on the side,” Maggie seethed.

      My gaping mouth was too much invitation to the driving snow, and the combination of cold and tickling sent me into a spurt of choking, then laughter. “That’s so blatantly jealous, you sound like a seventh grader!”

      For a moment, I didn’t know whether Maggie was going to push me down into the snow or what. It was obvious that she was fighting a battle within herself, and it didn’t look good for me.

      “Stuff it, Brown!”

      If she thought I owed her allegiance regardless of her actions, I had news for her. She already knew we disagreed on the concept of unconditional love. As far as I was concerned, that extended only as far as newborn babies. Okay, maybe up to the age of five. Thereafter, conduct had repercussions. Whatever. I’d had enough of her theatrics for one day.

      As she snatched up an armful of wood and marched awkwardly back toward the house in boots too large for her size-seven feet, I let her have it.

      “You think living your life like a damned opera is fun to watch? It’s not. It’s exhausting. And for your information there was a Frenchman called Bizet, who pulled off with real panache what you can only play at, and it was called Carmen!”