If you’re marked for trouble, it will trail you like a homeless dog, looking and acting like love but smelling like the shady bend of the river. It was May my trouble started sniffing around me, a year almost to the day that Mom left us. That would be on the morning I saw the sign, folded lengthwise, on top of the bureau in the Frost guest cottage:
Fragile--Do Not Disturb!
Then my eyeballs rolled behind the sign, where lined up like a circus act sat six thumb-sized sculptures, all molded or carved from what looked like wood or bone or rock, or maybe ivory.