“I will, and I’m going to call Branwell about another horsewoman—”

“Wilson—”

“And I don’t want any arguments.”

He hears his mother sigh.

“Good-bye, Mother,” he says.

He hangs up with his finger, a pause between Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Carter, the younger of whom he has been putting off calling ever since he heard from the vet. With another round of treatment, the vet has said Maggie’s chances are about twenty percent. One in five, Wilson thinks. If there were a one-in-five chance that he’d, let’s say, be killed, he’d consider those odds pretty good, and he’d be afraid. So shouldn’t he be as hopeful that Maggie will live as he would be frightened if he had a one-in-five chance of being killed? Still, he’s not sure he wants to tell Ruth about Maggie—not until the dog’s been back to the vet anyway. There is, after all, a twenty percent chance she’ll be okay, so shouldn’t he spare Ruth the worry? He can hear his wife even now, blaming herself for insisting that they pick up Maggie a day early, though that has nothing to do with it at all—typical Ruth, to blame herself for everything. And Isabelle—if she knew Maggie is this sick—it’s nothing Wilson will even consider! There is something about admitting a thing that makes it real, and Wilson doesn’t want this illness to be real; if the treatment works, then no one will ever have to know.

“Hi,” he says, when finally he’s dialed and Ruth has answered.

“Did you know about the ants?”

“What?”

“The ants. Did you know about the ants?”

“What ants? What are you talking about?”

“The exterminator came today. Isabelle apparently had a little ant colony underneath the sink.”

“An ant colony?”

“She parked herself in front of the cabinet and refused to move. I had to drag her out of the kitchen. Jesus, Wilson. What is going on? Where did I go wrong?”

“Ruth.”

“I’m just glad I have no other children to fuck up.”

Wilson bites the insides of his cheeks, which are ridged from the habit. He is glad he’s said nothing about the dog; Ruth doesn’t need to hear about Maggie right now. He decides to wait also, until the evening maybe, to mention their visit to his mother. He’s not exactly sure what Ruth means by an ant colony, but it’s clear that the issue is larger than that.

“You have been nothing but a good mother,” he says.

He hears Ruth sigh.

“I did find an art class,” she says, finally.

“You see?”

“Mother-daughter, although at this point it’d probably be better if it were a father-daughter class. You’re much more creative than I am.”

“You’re creative.”

“No I’m not. I can hardly do a stick figure.”

“Well, you’re the most creative lawyer I’ve ever seen practice.”

“Please,” Ruth says. “Was, maybe.”

Wilson leans over to crack the window. “And will be again. As soon as she’s back in school. As soon as she speaks again. Soon.”