They are quiet for a minute, and then Ruth clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking,” she says. “I’ve been thinking maybe we should go away this summer. Africa, maybe. I’d like to go to Africa.” She stirs her drink. “You’ve been to Africa, haven’t you, Wil?”

“Seventy-five,” he says. “My father took me.”

“Well, I’d like to go to Africa. I’m sure it’s more beautiful than I can imagine. What do you think, Isabelle? Would you want to go to Africa?”

Isabelle switches crayons, red to black.

“Tell Isabelle what Africa’s like, Wil,” Ruth says. “Tell us about your trip.”

Wilson shifts in his seat. He tries to catch Ruth’s eye, fails. He glances at his daughter. Her head is bent over her drawing. “Well,” he begins. “It was a long time ago. But I remember it was very hot. It was hot, but we had to wear pants because of the rattlesnakes. Or something. I think it was because of rattlesnakes.” He pauses. “There were giraffes,” he says lamely. “And lions…”

He is relieved when the waitress returns to take their order. Ruth orders her salad and steak, and Wilson orders crab cakes and linguini.

“And what would the young lady like?” The waitress turns to Isabelle. Isabelle stares at the table.

“Isabelle,” Ruth says. “Tell the waitress what you’d like to eat.” Isabelle stares at the table.

Wilson opens his mouth to order for her, and he feels Ruth’s foot hard against his shin. He looks at her, and she gives him a warning glance.

“Should I come back?” the waitress asks.

Wilson clears his throat. “No,” he says. “She’ll have the chicken fingers.”

“Chips, fries, or coleslaw?”

“Fries,” Wilson says. “And I’d like a glass of red wine, please. Whatever the house merlot is.”

“Let’s have a bottle,” Ruth suggests. “It’s your birthday. We should celebrate.”

“A bottle, then.”

They are quiet after the waitress leaves.

“You know,” Wilson says. “I think we might have new neighbors. I saw a moving truck over at Mr. Sullivan’s this afternoon.”

“And what were you doing at Mr. Sullivan’s?” Ruth asks.

“Nothing. I wasn’t. I saw from the driveway when I was doing the firewood.”

“Who are they? Or he, or she?”

“I don’t know. I just saw the truck.” Isabelle has looked up from her drawing, and the curious look on her face makes Wilson desperate to go on. “It was a big truck,” he says. “Maybe it’s a family. It looked like a family-size truck. Or like a truck that would have a family’s worth of stuff in it.”