sat in her car for a moment looking at it, because some part of her needed to confirm that this was real — that she was parked in front of an actual address on an actual street, and not inside the specific kind of dream that sometimes sent her down Route 9 in her sleep.
She got out of the car. She was still holding the Polaroid, gripping it so hard the edges had bent.
The front door opened before she reached the porch.
A woman stood in the doorway. Thirties. Dark hair. The expression of someone who has been expecting something and is now not sure she’s ready for it to arrive.
A small boy appeared behind her in the hallway, clutching a toy dinosaur. He looked about four or five.
“Grandpa?” he called.
Margaret’s knees went uncertain.
The woman looked at Margaret. Then she looked at the Polaroid in
