A little more than a week ago, we moved from our roomy New Englander in the small shipbuilding city of Bath to a snug fixer-upper in the woods. “Do you need help?” a friend asked the previous day at church. “Oh, no,” I confidently replied. “It should only take an hour or two to load up the last U-Haul. Then we should be on our way.”
I was 16 years old, working the evening shift at a clothing outlet in Kittery, Maine’s southern shopping mecca, to earn Christmas money after school. Since I didn’t drive, my mom was supposed to pick me up at 8:30 p.m. when the store closed and we’d finished tidying up.
Only, on this night,