Several times in the summer of her fifteenth year, she rode her bicycle over to Walden Pond, not to go swimming, though that was what she told her mother, but to walk where Thoreau had walked, sit where he sat, and try to feel what he must have felt, but the best she could manage was a sickness at thinking what Thoreau would have thought if he were to rouse from his grave of over a century. Old Henry wouldn't be very happy, she realized; things had changed a lot, and changed for the worse, and from that realization came a determination to try and do something about it.Her father's prophecy didn't come true until the spring of her twenty-first year, when there also came a chance to do a part in turning back the deterioration of the earth she had promised old Henry's ghost to do something about.By that spring, Heather had blossomed into a young woman of medium height, with hair that indeterminate shade that's right between redheaded and blonde, and freckles on her face, which she never. Beyond the fence, where the bluff ended and the steep drop to the rocky shore began, a house stood, a ramshackle affair built of planks barely more sound than the surrounding fence. Through that fence, the gravel road passed a rusty mailbox on a bent post and led to the house and to a beat-up red truck. Billy pulled in and parked beside the truck."Is this your house, Billy?" Nah. It's my dad's house. Come on in and meet the family."His voice sounded strange, the way he said 'family'.We walked from the car to the house. As we did, I glanced at him, but he kept his gaze turned from me, toward the house and its sagging porch. And after we climbed up the short, rickety stairs, and as Billy pulled open the screen door, I wondered, was he poor?The front door was stuck in its frame, and Billy had to put his weight against it. It popped open, and an appalling smell greeted us. I twisted my nose. Billy noticed and said, "That's the dogs. We won't be staying here long." I followed him in.First.
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