The Inheritor - Pg 8

   A crackle of the dried juniper branches she had gathered in the Berkeley hills, which slowly took flame and shot up with a cheery roar, driving back the dank mist. She stood with her hands stretched to the kindly warmth; but outside, the windows were so white she could not see the garden. She felt the chill from the open window and went to close it. Fog was beautiful.
   When it stayed outside where it belonged.