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scene of the day. She drove home and made lunch for Micah, who was just getting up. He sat at the dining room table, head wet from the shower, scratching his arms.
    â€œHow were the horses?” said Joan.
    â€œWe didn’t get to see them. We had to leave the farm because we were laughing too much.”
    â€œWell, at least you had a good time.”
    â€œThen we went to the ocean.”
    â€œWhat did you think?”
    Micah took a bite of the sandwich Joan had made. “It felt like I belonged there,” he said.
    She came over and touched his wet hair. “Doesn’t it? I know just what you mean. Though I worried when you were out so late.”
    â€œYou don’t have to, Mom. I’m not seven anymore.”
    â€œI know you’re not,” said Joan.
    It was true in some ways—she’d forgotten that he was alive all this time and not waiting for her to return to begin again.
    â€œYou don’t know what it’s like,” she said.
    â€œBecause you left?”
    â€œIt must have seemed selfish.”
    â€œI thought you were in trouble,” said Micah. “I didn’t think that it was something you did to someone.”
    â€œTo you,” said Joan. “That’s who it was done to.”
    â€œSometimes I pretended you broke the law and didn’t want to bring it down on us. Like you robbed a bank or something.”
    Joan laughed. “I should have.”
    â€œYou wore a blue bandanna to hide your face and the newspapers called you the Blue Bandit. All the bank tellers were afraid that you might be heading their way.”
    â€œOh Micah,” said Joan. “I hope I haven’t hurt you too much.”
    She felt good to be reminded of the little boy he had been. He seemed real to her for the first time since she’d seen him again in the doorway of Tiny’s house.
    Joan went to North Hollywood to read for the role of the older Ann Flowers in The Powder Horn . Five men sat on one side of a table, and Joan stood on the other, with a brass bed and chair on her side of the room.
    â€œWe love what you’re doing in Mystic Forensic, ” said the director.
    â€œ Forensic Mystic, ” said Joan.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œEveryone does that.”
    â€œWe’d like to go over the scene in the cabin. Do you need a script?”
    â€œI know the part.”
    â€œNight. Crockett knocks, you rise, you open door. And the line is yours.”
    â€œGood evening,” said Joan.
    An associate producer read Davy Crockett’s lines.
    â€œEvening, miss.”
    â€œAre you lost?”
    â€œYes, that sounds accurate. I crossed the New River in a storm. They said wait for the ferryman but I wouldn’t listen.”
    â€œThe New River is two hundred miles from here.”
    â€œIt might be another time I’m thinking of.”
    â€œDavid?”
    â€œAnd you’re Ann.”
    â€œCome in, man. Get by the fire.”
    â€œI could use whiskey if you got it.”
    â€œThis is as it was before.”
    â€œYou’re hardly any older, Ann. I can still see those eyes under the rafters.”
    â€œWhy have you come?”
    â€œI don’t know. I thought that I would get out all right because, you know, that’s what I do. But I’m nothing now.”
    â€œYou’re here.”
    â€œIn a manner. Did you get married, Ann? Have a family and all?”
    â€œI never did. I suppose I had my suitors. But that night, when you came to our place, you were so cold. Just a boy. It got into my heart somehow. And kind of stayed there.”
    â€œThat must be it.”
    â€œMust be what?”
    â€œWhy here. Why you.”
    â€œHush, David. Drink your drink. We have all night for talking.”
    Joan was in tears. She never had trouble finding the emotions in the words.
    â€œI don’t know what to say,” said the director.
    â€œNow, there is some nudity,” said the associate