It occurs to Sandra that the woodchuck (who has found its way somehow into her living room and is eyeing Henry, her nephew napping in front of a baseball game on the couch with her little Jenny using his ribcage as a pillow and sleeping too with the little snores children make) looks like a miniature bear, just kind of out doing its own thing, not hurting anyone. It seems more interested in just watching the cousins nap in this time after Henry has helped Jenny with her math. Sandra is grateful enough that she doesn’t want to bother either of them, grateful for Henry’s help, for Jenny’s life, for her life, for crazy little woodchucks that have no sense of propriety, for the air, for the smell of spring in the first weeks that green bounds across the field. It’s this gratitude (she will decide later) that sends her into the kitchen where she takes the broom off the wall, and instead of screaming at the thing to leave, simply ushers it out. It charges for the open door with a little grunt as soon as the bristles touch its back, and Sandra steps out on her porch and watches it run for a bit and then turn back to watch her and then disappear into the woods across the street.