One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
And then the chiming stopped. At the last stroke of the hour, there had been eleven tolls; no one was at home; the clock stayed quiet, withholding the final two bells.
What was wrong? She had been there, two days ago, in the family room, after dinner, after they had lit candles and said a prayer for grandmama in the hospital and for her brother fighting against the invaders, her father, tall, strong, had walked solemnly across the rug and wound the clock, as he did every Sunday evening without fail.
The Watermelon King / Daniel Wallace