"Have you?"
She met his eyes. They were grey-green, the color of river stone after rain. "Car accident when I was twenty. Nothing dramatic. Rain on the interstate outside Columbus, a truck that braked too late, a month of crutches and a year of being afraid of speed. Just enough to teach me that bones remember what the mind tries to file away."
He nodded as if he understood about bones remembering. Then he rose, added wood to the fire, and checked the lamp's wick with a trimmed matchstick. The storm pressed against the glass. Snow had already climbed halfway up the lower panes, turning the window into a white eyelid half closed.