Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84 Page 85 Page 86 Page 87 Page 88 Page 89 Page 90 Page 91 Page 92 Page 93 Page 94 Page 95 Page 96 Page 97 Page 98 Page 99 Page 100 Page 101 Page 102 Page 103 Page 104 Page 105 Page 106 Page 107 Page 108Maine Woolens was founded in 2009. Our flag ship store in Freeport offers finely woven blankets and throws in cotton and wools that are made in our Brunswick, Maine mill. We weave with the best American fibers available including combed cotton, Supima cotton and Merino wools. We feel the quality of our Maine made products are second to none. Fiction 102 p o r t l a n d monthly magazine ter because it was something in his voice that aroused me, how he would tell me ex- actly what to do or what he wanted to do to me and look me directly in the eyes while doing it or asking for it. Cole told me the ride wasn’t so bad in the afternoons. He enjoyed watching the other kids climb off the bus. He liked wait- ing to see if they’d run up to their houses or skulk back with their heads hang-dog low, dreading it all. I n January and February, Meade drove the half-mile down to the head of the farm road to meet the bus. “I walk it in Decem- ber and March,” Cole said. “December and March aren’t really winter. Dad says they’re like the preamble and the postscript.” This winter I knew Meade was imagining me sit- ting beside him in the cab, waiting at the end of a dead gravel road for a boy who was not my own. “Meade,” I said now, “I have to go to work.” He closed the kitchen drawer and looked up at the window. We could see the brick side of St. Anthony’s with its red and gold stained glass windows. The clock on the church’s steeple face had been broken for two weeks now, and we spent a lot of afternoons spec- ulating about when men would come with scaffolding to fix time. This was in between talking about when it would snow. Talking about that seemed easy still. Meade said it al- ways snowed a little in November in Maine. “I’m saying what if I don’t want all this,” I said. He opened a cabinet and said, “It doesn’t change its being there.” ThenIwalkedoutoftheapartment,leav- ingMeadewiththefruitfliesandtheviewof St.Anthony’s.Iwasgoingtowalkuntilmy feetfeltascoldasCole’smusthavestomp- ingdownthatranchroadinDecemberand March.AndwhenIgothomefromwork,I knewI’dfindMeadelyingonthethickbrown ruginthelivingroomwithhisfeetuponthe couch.Sometimeshewassomuchlikeacon- fusedboyIcouldn’tlookawayfromhim.n Greg Brown’s fiction has appeared in Shenandoah Literary, Epoch Magazine,and Narrative Magazine.Agraduate of the IowaWriters’Workshop,he lives in western Maine with his daughter and his partner and is working on a novel about family mythology,native land and river rights,and a territorial lobstering feud.