Peter’s first instinct was to call his father and tell him about the memory. Where had it come from? How could he have forgotten it for this long? When this passed—as it always did—he wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t look at Deschutes. He was afraid he might hit him.

Back at the house, Deschutes grabbed a bottle of wine and headed upstairs. Unsure of what else to do, Peter followed. He didn’t feel like painting, but the old man was stationed in his usual spot, his gaze fixed to the canvas.

“You’ll finish it today,” Deschutes said, a command rather than a question.

Peter tried to stay calm. “I think I’m done here.”

“What are you talking about? You don’t even have her eyes.”

“I guess you’ll have to do them yourself.”

Deschutes licked his lips. “You finish it today or I’m not paying you for any of it.”

Peter tried to calm himself, but he thought of Rena, of the cost of the flight. “We had a deal. You said you’d pay if I worked and I did.”

“I don’t see any contract,” Deschutes said, wiping some spittle from his chin. “I don’t remember signing anything. Do you?”

Peter thought about hitting the old man but knew he couldn’t. Deschutes was too old, and his dad’s buddy, and a veteran. And so he went first for the love notes, which he stuffed into his back pocket, and then for the canvas.

“Just like your dad,” the old man said. “Always running away. A coward.”

“Get over yourself,” Peter said, and then took off down the stairs, faster than he knew Deschutes could go.

The canvas barely fit in the backseat of his car. Peter had to force the door shut, but eventually it closed, sealing the half-finished Slinky inside. Before starting the engine, Peter glanced up and saw Deschutes in the window of the sleeping porch, watching.

At home, Peter left Slinky in the car. He wanted her to suffocate, to melt into the canvas and then into his car’s upholstery.

Not wanting the comfort of the couch, Peter sat on the floor and started to read the love notes, which were yellowed from age and thin as onionskin. Slinky’s writing was small and faint and difficult to read—she had written with a pencil. As he read, he was surprised to find that nearly all of the letters mentioned his father. To Peter, his father had always been Donald, but back then he must have been Donnie. A nickname, Peter thought. His father had a nickname.

One note stuck out in particular.

Dear Bobby,

I keep thinking back to that time you and Donnie and me went out to that beach up north of here. The one with the sea lions? Donnie said something like, “What if the whole universe was built just for the two of us?” I was so fucked up I couldn’t tell if he meant the two of us as in me and him or you and him—like maybe the universe was made for the two of you guys to go around pillaging the city, and I was just part of that package. An asterisk. I want to know but then again I don’t—I couldn’t stand to be Donnie’s asterisk.