By now, they were supposed to have a family, their own house, a circle of smart and interesting friends, a full and useful life—success.

If only he knew what to say, how to make it right. It would have happened whether he was there or not, but he could have been a comfort. If only he hadn’t blown it in Philadelphia and then Chicago. If only he didn’t crave a slug of whiskey so bad he could actually feel the soothing buzz in his brain just from thinking about it. If only he were a better man in a better place. If only he had the words.

The right words made something true, or not. The right words couldn’t be taken back later. “I love you,” he had told her long ago, and those words were out in the world now, alive all by themselves. He couldn’t call them back. She had said the same words out loud.

He listened to his wife weeping in the next room. The anger left him. He felt an ache under his ribs. He went in and put his arms around her—gently, gently—and rocked her. It didn’t make her stop crying, but it was all he could do. He kept rocking her, staring out the bedroom window at the arms of the locust trees waving in a fitful breeze, light flickering off the leaves like sunlight shimmering on water.

Next morning, Hugh MacRae was sitting on Sam’s desk when he arrived for work. “Burning daylight,” he said. “Thought the army would have taught you better.” He was wearing mud-speckled brown riding boots and a linen suit the color of sunflowers. When he slipped off the desk and tucked his thumbs into his waistband, the jacket flapped open, and Sam noticed he was wearing a shoulder rig with a horse pistol.

He clapped Sam on the back. “Leave your hat on. We’re going on a little excursion, you and me.”

“A story?”

“Right, a story.”

“Whatever you say.” Sam grabbed a fistful of pencils and stuck them into an inside pocket, then stuffed a notebook into his outside pocket. Hugh led him by the arm to the door before halting him at the top of the stairs. “Here,” he said, handing Sam an object wrapped in a linen handkerchief.

“What’s this?” Sam said, feeling the outline and the weight, knowing exactly what it was.

“You know how it works?”

Sam nodded and unwrapped the handkerchief. The navy pocket revolver smelled of gun oil. By the weight, he guessed it was fully loaded. He didn’t know what else to do with it, so he stuck it into his jacket pocket.

“Relax,” Hugh said. “Everybody’s got to bring something to the party.”

Sam followed Hugh’s lead. He breathed deliberately to try to get his pulse under control.