The fieldstones are flecked with grey, and she is stretched across the warmth of the stones as if
every bit of her could absorb the heat even as the embers die on the hearth. The warm steam rises
throughout the room, and the sounds of a late winter afternoon trail off into a warm echo of
comfort. There is quiet here, and she rolls over to catch the last drafts of heat to waft accross
the floor; she can hear the kids wrestling in the hall, and the sent of chicken stewing drifts
across the room. The sunday papers rustle as she she shifts to warm her feet.