Beckman scrambled out of bed when he realized that the sound he heard outside was Malany’s car, and that he had slept well past the time he had conditioned himself to awaken since the age of twelve. Malany’s car door slammed. Her footsteps on the gravel, strong and militant, came toward the cabin. She came in, breezy and unnaturally pink-cheeked, waving a paper bag with greasy spots on the bottom.
“Your junk food. Enjoy it in the worst of health.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked so guiltless, so pubescently sweet, that I actually didn’t have the heart.”
Beckman dug into the bag and started eating the doughnuts.
“Did you happen to pick up the local paper?”
Malany smiled like a lover. “Yes.” She eased the small daily from its hiding place behind her back.
“It’s on the third page
