They went inside, Johnny detouring through the shop, where his truck was in for maintenance. Kate hadn‘t touched anything while he was at school. The deal was they‘d do any necessary work on his pickup together, that was how he‘d learn, but you had to watch her. She stole books you were reading, too.

Jim went straight to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Alaskan Amber. Uncapping it, he tilted his head back and took a long swallow. He felt better immediately.

Kate was peeling Saran wrap off the top of a deep brown mixing bowl. She bent down and sniffed.

What‘s the latest yeasty masterpiece?

She looked up and smiled at him. He didn‘t see stars, he told himself, it was only his imagination. Same as the last, only I halved the amount of yeast, and I‘m going to knead the salt in between risings.

You might as well be speaking in tongues, he said.

She laughed, the same low husky rasp that she‘d rolled out at the Riverside earlier in the day. Mine, he thought, and even he couldn‘t have said if he was referring to the laugh or to the woman. Both, probably. He wanted the whole package. Still. Amazing.

Constancy wasn‘t exactly Jim Chopin‘s middle name.

He went into the living room to consult the theater system with surround sound without which he had insisted no house was truly a home, and saw Johnny‘s iPod in the sound dock. He hit Play and moments later Mos Def‘s Caldonia from the soundtrack of LackawannaBluesfilled the air.

Oh yeah, Kate said, and he grinned at her through the pass-through. What‘s for dinner? he said.

Fried Spam and eggs.

Excellent, Johnny said, emerging from the bathroom to do a quick knee-drop to the beat.

Jim looked at Kate. Hey, what can I tell you? she said. It‘s my Native culture calling to me. You know Alaskans are second only to Hawaiians in consumption of Spam.

And I hear second only to Utah in downloading porn, Johnny said, jumping into a hip slide across the floor to the door of his room, through which he slung his daypack.

How we can hold our heads up in public ever again, Jim said.

I don‘t want to know how you know that, Kate said, looking at Johnny. Johnny‘s grin was cheeky. Just wait till the Park gets online. Then we‘ll be number one.

She thought of the computers targeted for the school and shuddered. She‘d floured the counter, sprinkled two teaspoons of salt over the flour, and turned out the dough. Before they had begun construction, the Park rat house-raising committee had measured her from sole to waist and made the countertops Kate high, which coincidentally made it very convenient for Jim to stand behind her, slide his arms around her waist, and snug her head beneath his chin.

She stilled. I‘m covered in flour.

I don‘t care.

Not to mention which, Johnny said in pretend indignation, closing his bedroom door behind him with a distinct thud, the kid‘s standing right here.