He leaned forward. “Not that it’s any of my business, Frances. But . . . ! I’ve been wondering. In my year here, I’ve never seen people chat together in my waiting-room. For that matter, I’ve never seen neighbors host a little get-together in someone’s backyard! Why is that?”

Palmer’s question put Frances in the position of defending the town, which she did not like. “We have parties, all right. I suppose you just don’t know about them.”

“Oh? I don’t quite believe that!” The doctor faced her, chin sunk into his folded hands, a merry challenge in his eyes. “I think I would have heard about a little party here and there.”

“Well . . . we have a dance once a year, anyway. Do other towns host such frequent, wonderful parties, by comparison?”

“Sure they do.”

“Well, how darned marvelous can a party be, Palmer? It’s just a matter of a few hours, then everyone goes home.”

He wiped his hands of crumbs. “Yes, in a way, you are right. I recall parties from California that were dull, and some that were disastrous! Those were strange days for me, Frances, with a strange odor to them.”

Palmer’s small desk and its dented green metal depressed Frances, making her recall dour rain.

“We’re quiet here in Munson, and we work hard,” she said at last, guardedly, “because we have potent responsibilities.” Then she realized with withering despair that these were the exact words of Enoch Ruth, the town’s council leader, who, during her childhood years and beyond, made frequent speeches and warnings to the town.

“What responsibilities are those?” Palmer asked, but Frances could not seem to answer.

“I have duties too, and every evening I work at home, trying to invent a new compound that the world has never seen before, but Frances, I still find time to relax!”

She frowned. “Are you saying that the people of Munson have a chip on their shoulder?”

“I’m saying it a little.”

She answered coolly, eyes flat. “We keep to ourselves, that’s all. We work hard.”

“Hmm,” Palmer breathed critically.

Frances suppressed a sob, then released it. She was, she realized, merely thinking of her dog.

“Ah. At times, I feel regret too, Frances,” the doctor offered.

She sniffed. “Has your regret to do with a woman, Palmer?”

“Ha-ha!” The man smiled, not answering further, his glasses crooked on his nose so comically that Frances gave forth a sharp, sudden laugh. It came to her for the first time since Palmer arrived to town that he might not be a bad sort, and something in her mind leapt toward his water-green eyes. With their measure of humor, alongside his rough, flaking face-skin, he looked, Frances thought, like an earnest teacher, or the type of dreamer who owns an ice-cream shop.

As the afternoon passed, Frances examined the papers, torn ledgers, and disease journals piled in the close office, and the sun shifted such that a weak angle of light passed through the tiny, high window, gently warming her face, imparting a panoply of sensations from vigor to distress.