“If things keep going the way they are, well, I think someday soon there might be a revolt!”

He was referring to their town, Munson. Years before, it had been called Hutchinson-Munson, after the pair of entrepreneur brothers-in-law who had founded the city upon a dream of a prosperous smelter. That business failed for countless reasons, the unpredictable Florida weather being only one of these. Still, the brothers-in-law strove to become famous, because they feared sudden death and the nothingness that might come after. So they became joint mayor of the town, writing a pamphlet about the local volcano and its stolid beauty before fleeing the region. Now, the town was simply known as Munson.

Munson was isolated, though at its border stood a sister town, Little-Munson, which was poor and weak. The people there always seemed to struggle for the simplest things.

Ray often expressed irritation with Munson, because, as he put it, the town preferred to forget—perhaps hide from—the outer world. Others, including Frances, were inclined to feel the same. Certainly there were worse places to live, towns that lacked even a council. But Munson had a strange air; besides, it had too many rules.

“Oh, Ray, who’s going to revolt? There’s no one to revolt,” she said tiredly, glancing at his dark sweater-vest. Frances did not care about Ray’s childhood or his life before they were together. She did not bother to inquire about his former girlfriends, though sometimes she saw Ray gazing at a wallet photograph of a girl sitting on the lap of a tough-looking older man: the girl’s father, who had been prominent in a long-ago war. The girl was Fluff Davis, with whom Ray had spent a year or so. He doted on the old picture, even kissed it once, Frances observed, perhaps in admiration for the soldier father.

He opened the door. “Hmm,” Ray began. “There’ve been plenty of revolts through history—peasants revolted during the reformation in Germany. Ha! They thought Martin Luther was on their side.”

“Please, can’t you take that discussion to your friends or brother?” Frances grew tired of Ray’s overly detailed references to battle. “Give me some advice. I need something for this problem of mine.” She shut her eyes and lay back on the beige sofa.

“What is it, Frances?” He sat nearby.

“Oh, the not-sleeping, I guess.”

“Yes. It’s awful for you! What can we do?”

“All those pots and pots of coffee to wake me up! I feel sick, thinking of it. And the sleeping pills to get me down at night—I don’t necessarily like taking them, you know.”

“I know. Well, can’t we—”

“My heart could even burst! Could it?”

“Oh, no, Frances, no—that doesn’t happen.”

“Look at my eyes—these eyes are tired. I can barely get up in the morning.”

“Frances, let Palmer help. I’ll call him and make an appointment for you.”