Kenny took off his shoes and lay back stiffly on the sofa, wiping the thin hair from his forehead. He shut his eyes and inhaled angrily. Then he sat up. “You’re in one of those moods, Ray. You think I’m weak? Well, who wanted to drive when we all went to the gorge last year? I did. But no—you insisted on doing all the driving, making Frances and I sit in the back seat like children! I should have forced my point then, but I didn’t.” He shook his head in great disappointment. “Do you think I like being bossed? Don’t you think I want some control over my days and my destiny?”

Ray nearly choked, laughing. “Your destiny! Kenny, you take almost nine years of dawdling and whining before you take the firefighter’s test, and you talk about controlling your destiny? God!”

The remark silenced Kenny. Frances sat quietly opposite them with a small green cup in her hand, eyes flickering. She did not care to enter the dispute. Looking through the kitchen doorway and out the back window, she saw small rocks strewn through the grass, and at the rear of the yard, foliage rustled and moved. She sighed.

So many creatures ran there: voles, mice broods, cats as small as the palm of a person’s hand. There were litters of other animals, too, running across the yard—and badgers—which were there every night, along with other critters that no one thought of killing, so they ran free in unprecipitated excess and, Frances perceived, a sort of vanity.

She went to the window, straining her eyes to watch the animals surging through the foliage, a river of pelts. She made a face: if she opened the back door, she might detect their odors. Walking to the fireplace, she stooped and wondered aloud, “Is this open?” grabbing the flue handle.

“What did you say, Frances?” Ray asked, leaving the room.

She did not close the flue.

She thought of her own dog, Missie, a terrier, who one night had run from the house and, Frances believed, joined the hordes of animals outside. Missie never had come back. Frances knew Missie was still out there in the wide mantle of bushes that extended from the yard to the alley behind the house, because every so often she would hear Missie’s half-bark, or the jingle of the dog’s metal collar tag embossed with Frances’ name. But for all Frances’ whistling and calling, Missie would not come back. There was nothing Frances could do, and though she put a bowl of food in the backyard for the dog every night, which Missie—or something—ate, less and less of the food was consumed as time went on. This indicated to Frances that Missie might be learning to eat a new diet, perhaps one of prey.