In the middle of the room stood an easel with a canvas far smaller than the ones on which Joe usually worked. Becky had never seen it before. Perhaps Joe had finally started working on what was important to him instead of his huge historical monstrosities. Becky pulled it around carefully into the best light. A blue sky, an exceptional blue sky, a bluff above the lake growing tall, scraggly, rough grasses, and the outline of a small tree hanging out above the lake, a pale, almost white tree, twisted through the years into unimagined shapes and shadows but firmly anchored to the earth, her Tree, her magic, her life – all this leaping from the canvas before her, Joe finally taking it all and making it a part of his being and body. With a few simple strokes of his brushes he had grasped the essence of the tree and explained its existence. He had clearly reached a new level of consciousness with his work but it was her consciousness that he had invaded, the place where she resided alone and safe from the world. Her heart pounded in her chest like a separate being demanding exit from its prison. She jammed her nails into the flesh of her hands to see if she were still there. The studio was completely silent. Even the lake seemed silent, its usual lapping sounds against the rocks of the shore muffled by the fine, misting white snow. She left the painting on the easel and tiptoed out of the room softly, so quietly that not one part of the room would be disturbed, shut the door, hurried across the bridge, down the stairs, across the living room and into the kitchen. She turned on a single light over the gleaming white stove that sat so pristinely, so properly between the two windows that looked out on the driveway. There was no sound of a car. Only the Jeep sat silent and waiting. There was no sound at all. She stared at the stove for a moment, considering its nature. After a moment she finally knew what it was she had to do to save herself. She moved silently across the kitchen and into the hall that led to the laundry room. A small mountain of dirty clothes awaited her attention. She found two sheets which she could twist into a long rope. She tied the sheets together and then carefully pulled them and turned them until they resembled a rope. She felt as though she had done all of it before, that somehow she was finally performing something she had engineered in her mind a thousand times. In the garage she found two cans of the kerosene they used for the auxiliary stove in the kitchen. She took them and a bucket back to the laundry room. She poured the kerosene into the bucket and then dipped