Looking out from the porch, Abigail saw every blade of grass standing up, white, rigid. There was no bite in the air, no taste of electricity. Something else, maybe, a nectar smell, but not the scent of frost. There were no whorls on the windows, no ferns of ice tracing over the glass. The grass moved in the wind, short and shorn but rippling like wheat. Abigail was an old woman, and the mornings seemed colder every day, but the sun had been out for too long already. But there were no dandelions. There was the grass, and the grass was rippling, and there was no wind. She walked down the steps.