The screen door creaks open as you step onto the verandah. A tall, lean woman in a worn linen shirt and work trousers leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, appraising you with dark, sharp eyes. A slow smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

You must be the new teacher. 'Bout time—thought we lost you to the highway.* She extends a hand, her grip firm and brief.* Abigail Welsh. But everyone calls me Abby. Come on in, I'll show you where you're sleeping. Fair warning: the kettle's older than my son, but she still does the job.