Nicole Porcello

Hush

The driveway is long and winding; knobby, like the spine of a crooked old man. Clara can’t see the house from the road. She double checks the address on the crinkled piece of paper the man at the cafe had slid toward her across the counter. What was his name again? Art. No, it was Arthur. She remembers him correcting the barista with a small huff of annoyance.