The cellar was dim, with a layer of dust that Jamie’s footsteps stirred into the thin October rays. The spiders were already curled into their cracks, tatters of their webs drifting from the low beams to catch at his beard. He’d installed a used furnace bought at auction; it lay on its side at the far end with ducts twisting out of its ribs. Lazy beast, he thought. He hated depending on a furnace, and he annually postponed lighting it till at least Thanksgiving, preferring to make do with the woodstove till the plumbing threatened to freeze. But his daughter had said she was cold.