Mal sniffed. “Corky’s that way—real cold-like.”

“Who said we’re cold, Mal? We’re not.”

“It’s darned odd. It ’ent nat’rul, among young folk.”

“It is natural, Mal,” she said wearily, “if that’s how we are. Anyway, what about you? Don’t you like affection?”

“I ’ent talkin’ about me!” the cook bristled. “I’m talkin’ about you, because I know all th’ young people these days, an’ I watched ’em fer years, an’ I know yer not right in the mind, none of y’!” He violently scrubbed gristle-bits from the grill.

“Pfft!” Frances narrowed her eyes at him dismissively, then looked into the dining-room.

The cafe’s bright light glowed into the parking lot and gravelly road beyond; there she saw what looked like a small hog maneuvering in the grass, stopping to lick something on the ground as patiently as would a cat. Frances’ heart lurched, for the animal resembled Missie, at least around its rueful, lashy eyes. The hog glanced to the right, then left, its face feral and tender. The creature plunged into a thicket.

“ ’Ent you goin’ to the dance, Frances?”

She looked at Mal stoically. “The Munson dance? At the old pavilion where it floods rain enough to bring bloodworms onto the floor every year by the hundreds? I don’t think so.”

“Aw, Frances, y’ oughtta go.”

“Why should I? Ray’s certainly busy that night, and I won’t be going.”

“With ’r without yer brother, Frances, y’ should go. Why, all ladies do.”

“Ray isn’t my brother! Mal, why does everyone insist on believing he is? And why so much talk about the dance—have folks ever bothered to ask why the dance is supposedly so darned important?” A thin sheen of sweat sprang to her face, and Frances swiped at it impatiently.

Lucas whooped, laughing, eyes shining and rolling to the wall, and rhythmically he squeaked his fingertips along the rim of his cereal bowl.

Mal leaned forward intently, gripping Frances’ arm with his own gray, ropy arm, breath smelling of bacon: “Dammit, girl, b’cause ev’ry dance is a crossroads! You know th’ sayin’: ‘Go t’ every dance y’ can . . . ’ Eh, I ferget th’ last part a’ th’ sayin’. Y’ know it, Lucas?”

“I never heard that saying or anything like it!” Frances yanked her arm away.

“You lissen here, Frances! Yull go t’ th’ dance, if y’ know what’s any good in this life at all!”

“‘What’s any good in life!?’” Her mouth pulled up in a sardonic smile. “Mal, for God’s sake!”

“Don’ y’ hear me?” the man wheezed, nearly weepy now as he reached for a dirty towel. “It’s—” He coughed into the towel. “—please go! ’Cause it’s gonna be such a loada darned fun!”

“Mal, have you ever reminded yourself that formal dances are simply not the paradise you imagine?” Frances had a desire to fight the old man, even with her fists. “Don’t you see that life is just not that way?”