“I think that’s half a barrel of cocktails talking.”

Padgett drops the cup. They both hear it break, possibly on the barrel. “I haven’t talked to my brother in two years.”

“Are you just free-associating on sad things now?” Martin stands up, brushes off his pants, and feels the crackle of his finished list in his pocket. It’s done. He crossed everything off except the missing barrel, which he now heaves onto his shoulder. “Umph. How’d you even carry this?”

“I didn’t. I rolled it.”

“You rolled it?”

“A lot spilled out. It was right when I got here. I thought I would need it later.”

“You were right about that, I guess.”

“That’s unlike me.”

He leans down but he does not kiss her. Nevertheless, she feels kissed. It’s like they’re already kissing, or already done doing it. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s split.”

“With you? Split together?”

“Come on.”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Pretend I’m falling to my knees. Don’t make me abandon you in a forest.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I like you, and find myself attracted.”

“That,” Padgett says, with abrupt sleepiness, “is the same thing.” She totters up and watches the slice of the avenue, a horizon broken by thin black trees, seesaw and spin. Her legs are scuffling to walk properly, and then they do, quick learners, stilting her past Martin up through the last of the brush to the sidewalk. It’s cold, pretty much. Cars stampede past, the headlights quivering like lousy fireflies. If they notice, these midnight drivers, they do not honk at the man and the woman emerging reckless and restless from the trees. The couple keep walking. The directionless learn by moving, and in the sudden noise of traffic, they’re giddy with the sort of jarring joy you can’t help, foolishly, trusting absolutely. They go together, the barrel lifted like an infant, new to the world, staring at the crashing sky and wondering what everything is, and where everyone is going.

Chapter Two

CHAPTER 2

It is almost impossible to be unhappy at Cogwheels, a luxurious and spiritual resort a ways south of San Francisco. Nonetheless, Rachel Nickels has managed it. She’s sorry about it, but there it is. Ben, her husband, is next to her in the car, bringing them back. He’s wincing, probably at her brittle, forced behavior over the past few days. She doesn’t blame him. She wishes she could, though.