In her own bed, Ruth hears Wilson’s footsteps approaching. It is after one; she knows her husband has likely spent the past hours asleep on the couch, the television tuned to late-night news and a magazine upside down across his chest. Their bedroom door creaks slowly open.

“It’s okay,” Ruth says. “I’m awake.” Wilson’s silhouette is dark against the light of the hallway as he stands in the doorway, and then it’s gone as he reaches behind him to flip the hall light switch on the wall outside their door.

“I fell asleep,” Wilson says, passing through the darkness to the bathroom.

“I figured,” Ruth says. She props the pillows up behind her and listens to Wilson brush his teeth. He is thorough; the sound of the bristles passing over teeth is like a strange melody determined by the changing shape of Wilson’s mouth as he opens wider or holds his mouth in an oval or a grin to best get at each and every tooth. He spits, then rinses, then turns the water off and makes his way to bed.

“Shit!” Ruth hears him say. He stoops down and lifts something from the floor. “Stepped on a bone,” he says, tossing the rawhide onto the couch beside their bed. Ruth pulls back the covers on his side of the bed, and he gets in.

“I’m glad the slides were okay,” Ruth says.

“Lucky they were. I’m going to get some proper storage lockers for the things down there. You know, plastic trunks or something. The cardboard just isn’t doing it anymore.”

“Well, still. They were good to see.” Good, she thinks, and strange, almost sad, in a way Ruth can’t quite understand. After dinner, Wilson had taken the painting down from the wall behind the couch, and the three of them had sat in the darkness of the family room and watched Africa flick against the wall: empty plains, flat and windswept trees, elephant herds and piles of enormous bone, black-skinned Africans with toothy grins. The images were grainy, some a little water-stained, some cracked with age. “See the lion in that one,” Wilson had said, pointing to one. On the wall, Wilson, his brother, and their father stood in front of a safari jeep. They wore khaki shorts and knee socks, and Wilson’s father wore a wide-brimmed hat. All of them were smiling.

“I don’t see it,” Ruth had said.