Mrs. Perkins knew how the last five minutes would pass, how they were unlike all the other minutes of each day, how they would drag on and on. She stood at the entrance to the hall with a dish towel over her shoulder and a hand on the doorway to support the rest of her body, which leaned slightly into it. Her other hand hung at her side and waited. It was 3:10, and she knew this afternoon would be like every other afternoon. Yet her chest rose and fell as an inward excitement built up within her; she tried to control her breathing, and sweat beads gathered over her forehead. Her free hand rose and wiped her brow dry. In five minutes, as the clock began to chirp, she would move through the hall, her one hand trailing so as to brush the picture frames with her fingertips, the other thrust into her apron pocket. She would step lightly over the wood floor to maintain the hush of the house, and it would only creak when she was a few paces from the front door. There was no one else to...
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