I.
It is an old farmhouse: secluded, alone on a hilltop, miles from anywhere. Nobody will hear you here: we are alone, surrounded by woods, no neighbors. And no telephone. It has been a long drive from the city, and it is twilight here. The stars are coming out: so far are we from the 24-7 glow of civilization.
I stop the car and look at you: you get out and walk with me. I push the door open and I begin to circle the large front room, lighting candles along my way, so that by the time I have gone full-circuit the room fairly glows and flickers, gently. On my last visit I laid the fire and cleared the furniture, leaving only a sawhorse in the center of the room and a comfortable armchair a few paces from it. I light the fire, and the room warms to the crackle and hiss of the logs, adding firelight to the soft luminescence of forty candles. I pour a drink and settle into the chair, watching you intently.
You have been standing near the sawhorse, looking at it, sta...
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