Elliot has called Alice sixteen times since she left the day before. It is the weekend, and so he has nothing to do but wait for the phone to ring, for the door to open, for time to rewind so he can undream his dream. Why couldn’t the mallard have been a butterfly? Or a kitten? Why, for that matter, had there been a mallard at all? The only mallard he can even think of is the wooden one his stepfather, Roy, keeps on the highest shelf of his home office. It was an expensive mallard, hand painted by a popular folk artist in Jackson Hole, where Roy and his first wife, Barbie, lived before she was diagnosed with leukemia. The artist had given them a discount, but even then it was pricey. A thousand dollars. Elliot’s mother has always loved the mallard, which she often refers to as “the avian sculpture.” She once asked Roy to put it on the dining room table so that they could enjoy it during meals. Roy refused, saying a thousand-dollar decoy had no place on a dining room table. Once, Elliot caught him whispering to the decoy, “Barbie Doll, I miss you.”

Now that he has remembered Roy’s wooden mallard, Elliot cannot stop thinking about it. He wants to see the mallard, to hold it in his hands and feel whether it is heavy or light, smooth or textured. What kind of person buys a thousand-dollar decoy?

Elliot wishes he had the distraction of work to look forward to, but it is the weekend before Thanksgiving and he’s taken the whole week off. Alice and he made plans to spend the holiday with his parents in Wichita. He wonders if this little stint will last until Thursday morning, when they are due to drive out. He cannot believe that it will, and so he waits. He tells himself he is virtuous for being patient.

To pass the time, he arranges the apartment without her. He goes through his own boxes first, organizing his books on the bookshelf and putting his dishes into their proper cabinets. He constructs two matching IKEA end tables and puts them on either side of where the couch will eventually go, once it is delivered. He can imagine the couch taking the place of the emptiness, just as he can imagine Alice returning, replacing the quiet apartment with the sound of her voice, her laughter. She is the kind of woman who sings when she is happy— any song that comes to her mind. “Pop Goes the Weasel.” “Sometimes When We Touch.” The jingle for the Starlight Drive-In. Sometimes her singing drives Elliot crazy, but he does not remember this now. Nor does he remember the time he put a hand over her mouth and told her to be silent. Or how she bit his finger in response.