Ice-clogged steps up onto the uneven porch and finger ringing the cracked doorbell. She’s seen this movie, where the cartoon house comes alive and swallows children.
Door opens and the dog leans against the old man’s ripped pant leg that exposes shiny cyborg-metal from the knee down. Her brother would know what to say to the Terminator.
“What’re you selling?’
“I could shovel?”
“Ralph can’t. Could use a walk though.”
Britta nods. “Twenty?”