No smear or flood or brushstroke held the exact same weight, the same body, as the originals. Regardless, I was delighted to see them, these newest versions, to work from a memory into a new place. I followed the notes in my notebook, worked against the photos in my camera, and let myself luxuriate in the freedom of those beginnings, where nothing has to come together yet—nothing is final.

In that rhythm, I felt, for the first time, genuinely comfortable at Pine City. It wasn’t lonely. It was alone. We were alone with ourselves, living inside the universes we created, agreeing not to disturb each other’s fantasies, only to meet in the spaces between them.

And we did meet—or rather, Marlin, Jack, Tyler, and I met, and Jes remained silent—nods and hellos and high fives, brief chats, meeting in the most literal sense as all of our timings, our patterns of behavior, seemed to be different. I woke up before dawn and painted until nightfall, showered, and passed out. Jes and Marlin were barely around in the evenings, going back and forth to the city and Hudson with relative frequency. I thought that Jack might be the person I saw most, but his daughters caught a summer flu; I ran into him as he was leaving, packing his minivan with a heavy sigh and matching frown.

“There goes this week,” he said sadly.

“Catch you soon, I hope.”

“Two weeks,” he said. “See you then?”

“I’ll be here.”

That left Tyler and me alone on the massive property, and we soon fell—after several more days of heys and small smiles and waving with two fingers from behind the wheel after we passed on the road—into a nice familiarity.

Then, one night, when Tyler’s windows were the only ones that glowed against the dusk, and his car the only one in the carports, he called to ask me over for dinner. It would only be the two of us, as Jes and Marlin had driven to Hudson for another opening, and Jack was home with his family. Did I eat meat?

Flattered—and nervous—I accepted.

*  *  *

On the inside of Tyler’s all-black house, where he’d raised the ceiling to the angled rafters, the paint colors soaked up all the light so you could see the blues and greens of them, the browns and the grays. Lucinda Williams played on the stereo. His furniture was comfortable and uncomplicated. I leaned against the sofa with a beer, watching him cook, unsure of what to say.

He kicked it off. “How’s it going over there?”

“Great,” I said. “Everything’s good.”