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touching the afghan wrapped around West’s mom and the other leg pressed up against Frankie, who seems to need that.
    All day long, she pushes herself against me.
    She’s an alarming blend of kid and woman. Knobby knees and boobs, careful eye makeup and huddled posture. I understand why West loves her. Frankie is everything soft in him, every impulse right at the surface. Loud and funny, hot-tempered, quick to forgive.
    Your hair’s so pretty
, she tells me.
    Show me how you do your makeup
.
    Teach me how you make your scarf look like that
.
    She doesn’t say anything more about what she witnessed.
    She doesn’t cry.
    I wonder if I should tell someone that she saw the shooting, but who would I tell? Her mom knows the truth, whatever it is. Her grandmother, her aunts and uncles—either they know or they don’t. I can’t imagine breaking Frankie’s trust, turning over what she told me to somebody whose allegiances aren’t clear.
    The only person I can see myself telling is West, and West isn’t here.
    In the afternoon, we hear that Bo has been taken in for questioning again. West’s mom bursts into tears. She cries about Wyatt being dead. She cries about Bo being in jail. I can’t figure out which thing she’s more upset about.
    Frankie stares at the TV, her eyes wide and wet.
    I put my arm around her, and we watch soap operas.
    West doesn’t text. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t come, even though he said he would.
    That night, I comb through the online version of the Coos Bay paper on my phone after Frankie’s gone to sleep, trying to fill in the blanks.
    Shots reported at the trailer park. A gunshot wound to the chest. Ambulance to the hospital. Dead on arrival.
    The neighbors say an argument got out of hand.
    The paper says there were only two witnesses: Michelle and Bo.
    Bo’s been questioned, released, questioned again.
    I want to make a narrative out of these plain, blank facts. I want a story I can tell myself, but there’s only Michelle’s tear-streaked face. Frankie curled into a ball on the couch, her head on my lap as she watches TV. People coming in and out the door into the kitchen, talking to Joan, leaving food, running errands.
    I text West.
    What are you doing?
    When are you coming over here?
    Should I get a car?
    He ignores me.
    Even when we were dating, West never wanted me to know about Silt.
    Here I am, though, and before he forces me back out of his life, I’m going to learn as much about this place and these people as I can.
    My second day in Silt is the same as the first, except I listen harder, pay closer attention, and send West four hundred texts.
    How’s it going?
    What’s up?
    Need anything?
    He doesn’t respond, so I try random declarations.
    Watching Days of Our Lives w/ Frankie.
    Having split pea soup.
    SP soup looks like snot, but tastes good. Discuss.
    Then I give up and just start typing whatever comes to mind.
    When do you get off work?
    Am I going to see you tonight?
    Think I’ll go out for a beer.
    Shoot pool in a short skirt.
    Check out the local nightlife.
    Do you like Raisinets or Sno-Caps better?
    Milk Duds or Junior Mints?
    Ocean or mountains?
    I want to see you.
    Come for dinner.
    To my surprise, he does. His aunts and his grandma crowd around the table in the kitchen with his mom, and there are cousins big and small with paper plates, fruit salad with whipped cream and marshmallows, stringed chicken cooked all day in a Crock-Pot.
    When he takes his plate to the couch, I follow. I sit beside him and ask, “How was your day?”
    “Got a lot of texts.”
    “Anything interesting?”
    He stares at the TV with his plate balanced on his lap and bites into a pull-apart roll slathered in butter. “Nope.”
    But he slants me a look, and the smart-ass tilt to his mouth makes me flush with heat.
    I’ve seen that smile in bed, over dinner, in his car, in the bakery, in every corner of our lives together.
    I miss that smile.
    “You can’t ignore me into