June stood her Christmas cards on the coffee table—one from her real estate agent; the other from the nursery where she bought ten leyland cypresses for privacy. She turned on a Christmas movie she’d seen too many times. Her mind wandered. She thought about her husband who’d lived with her ten years and then died in prison serving five on a meth rap. He wouldn’t have won any contests, but she always knew where he was. Now her son was in jail awaiting trial for conspiracy to commit murder—he’d had friends. She no longer knew what that meant.