The baby’s so little. Died in childbirth, was what that talky man said. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, you’re the first I’ve liked.” He puts the heel of his palm between her legs and she raises her hips a little, like she’s taking pants off, ready to say yes. But she only says yes to the weekend, and he hoodies up and leaves. She has one more drink and a shower, moves a toothpasted finger around in her mouth. She calls up a map on her phone and the map calls up a car to get her home, and the weekend is postponed four times but then happens, the way economists will say, over and over, that the economy is terrible, and one day nobody has any money.

It is almost impossible to be unhappy there. Padgett certainly doesn’t manage it. The private lessons in some stretchy form of meditation, the orgasms in the breezy tent, the goat cheese with nettles nestled into it, conspire to make her smiley. And a lot of wine. The road back is like a listing ship, after two mimosas at brunch and then a swig, two of them, deep and wide, while the Vic was loading their duffels, from a bottle of chardonnay that was just sitting there in the little lobby cabin in a weeping ice bucket. Swerving, yes. The sky’s dizzying. But she feels happy, a grin on her face like she’s tightroping, and although she keeps waiting for the feeling to leave, it. Just. Doesn’t.

“I had a really nice time,” says the Vic.

There’s music on, electric guitars churning like someone’s drawing Padgett a bath. No need to speak.

“And I liked meeting your mom, when I picked you up. She mentioned your brother?”

“I don’t,” Padgett says, “talk about anything about him.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

At this Padgett blinks open. “You are?”

“Sure,” Vic says, just a few fingers on the steering wheel. “The whole point is to be as vulnerable as possible for as long as possible.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“All over the place, everybody knows that. We should be telling each other things.”

Things. Out under the window there are workers on the side of the road, huddled together, poking with sticks. What is anyone doing?

The Vic sighs at the gear shift. “If you could meet me maybe somewhere halfway.”

“Vic,” Padgett says, realizing she almost said the. “I can’t meet you halfway. I can barely meet you, I’ve barely met you. You are very famous—”

“Stop.”

“And grieving.”

“Grieving?”

“Your wife died. I think you’re in shock or this is, I am, some shocky rebound.”

“That’s not what it is.”