Peter began to sort through the charcoals, creating a stack of the ones he preferred. He liked them all, but he knew some would take longer to paint than others. When he was done, he had two piles. He closed his eyes and thumbed through the yes pile, finally pulling a corner at random. When he opened his eyes he was holding a sketch in which Slinky was naked but for a string of pearls. All around her, peacock feathers shot up from the earth, some the size of trees.

“This one,” Peter said, holding the paper by a corner, so as to not smudge the charcoal.

Deschutes nodded.

Peter was excited to sort through the old man’s oil paints, which he knew would be of higher quality than any he could afford. He wondered if Deschutes had ever used the same oils as his father—the ones eventually linked to his bladder cancer. Then he wondered if Slinky knew about his father’s death, if either man had kept in contact with her over the years. The thought of bringing her to life, this woman who had been shared by his father and Deschutes, seemed a more interesting way to spend his time than mowing grass or pulling weeds. He wondered what Rena was doing, and then, indulging in this thought, imagined her watching him as he cleaned the brushes, chose his colors, and began to carefully mix the paints.

Deschutes watched him work. At one point he disappeared from the room and returned with a bottle of wine, the skin above his lips stained purple. He did not offer any to Peter, and Peter was glad for it—he wanted to focus all of his attention on Slinky, who was slowly taking form on the canvas. The two did not speak, except for once when Deschutes sneezed and Peter offered a quiet “bless you” that the old man acknowledged with a quick humming sound.

At sunset, Deschutes disappeared again. Peter heard a toilet flush and then the old man was back with a new bottle of wine tucked under his arm and a stack of yellowed papers in his hand.

“What are those?” Peter asked.

“Letters. From her. Keep painting.”

Peter returned to his work as Deschutes cleared his throat and began to read:

Dear Honey Bear:

I miss you more each day. Feels like since you left, everyone looks like a lump of coal. You’ll never guess what happened at the Sizzle last night. Some guy choked on a butterscotch and dropped dead. Can you believe it? Everyone thought he was just drunk, but then come closing we find him on the ground, blue as a berry. He’d probably been dead for hours. Had a picture of some toddlers in his pocket. Little twins with yellow hair. I thought about how if I died right this minute, people would find a picture of you.

Love, Slinky

“She loved me, all right,” Deschutes said, more to himself than Peter.

“Why didn’t you stay with her?”