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beer, and half drowsed in the snug warmth, until I felt the light touch of Julia’s hand on my hair, and her whisper,
My anti-Samson
. The room fractured and shimmered.
    She sat next to me in the truck all the way back, her hand resting on my thigh.
    “Something’s changed,” she said. We drove west. The sun, low on the horizon, shone straight into the cab. She wore the same coat as on the night we’d met. A raincoat. Today it was dry.
    “I still love you.”
    “Bed linens, bread, orange juice…”
    In the rearview mirror, my face was gold in the sunlight. Hers wasn’t, and when she turned to look at me, she didn’t squint against the glare.
    “… beer, milk, fruit and vegetables and fish. And a newspaper.”
    “Dornan will need a decent place to sleep tomorrow night, and breakfast. And I want something for dinner that’s not rice.” I couldn’t explain the newspaper.
    The raincoat had disappeared. Now she wore jeans and a white, low-cut button T that exposed her tight belly. When had she worn those?
    “You didn’t mention the other things,” I said. The tarps, the cash, the liquid propane gas, the double tanks full of diesel fuel. She didn’t seem to hear. After a while, I realized why: they were going-away things.

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CHAPTER THREE
    « ^ »
    T he Isuzu bumped into the clearing just after midday, and Dornan poked his head through the open window. His face had more lines, or maybe it was the light. He climbed out and stretched. “Mountain roads…” He looked around, looked at me. “Something’s different.”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah. Well, I brought everything you asked for, plus a few extras.” He went round to the back of the Isuzu, opened the rear door, and pulled out a cooler. “There’s steak, and beer, and potatoes. Some decent coffee. And just in case you get the power on…”—he balanced the cooler against the rim of the trunk, reached in, and pulled out an espresso machine—“this.”
    “Good,” I said, then ran out of polite conversation. “Bring the records, and my clothes.” I lifted the cooler from him and carried it into the trailer. He followed with my hanging bag.
    “Where should I put it?”
    I jerked my chin forward, towards the bedroom, “On the bed,” and started transferring the cooler contents to the fridge.
    By the time he came back with the two cardboard file boxes, the food was in the fridge and I was wiping down the inside of the cooler. “On the table. I’ve almost finished.”
    He leaned against the table for a moment, considering. “The power is on,” he said, “and you’ve had your hair cut.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t respond. “I’ll make coffee.”
    He hummed to himself while he ground and measured, but he moved more slowly than usual, and there was more shadow than there had been around the bones of his wrists and nose.
    “You’ve lost weight.”
    He didn’t turn around, but said after a moment, “So have you.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, and now he did turn around, but I wasn’t sure how to explain what I meant: that I knew I’d been selfish; that I hadn’t cared about his worry, about Tammy; that there just wasn’t much room inside me for anything but my grief.
    “I just want you to find her for me, and bring her back,” he said.
    “I’ll find her.”
    “And bring… Oh, god. You think she’s dead.”
    “No.” The espresso machine hissed and spat. “Make the coffee and come and sit.”
    He made the coffee mechanically and brought it to the table.
    “I’m going to find Tammy,” I said. “I’ll talk to her. If she wants to come back, I’ll bring her. If.”
    “You’ll tell me where she is?”
    “If she wants me to.”
    He could have said a lot of things then, but he didn’t. He forced himself to smile. “You’ll let me know she’s safe at least?”
    “Yes.” If she was.
    He sipped at his coffee for a while, as though I weren’t there. “It’s a nice afternoon,” he said at last. “I think I’ll