“We could drive down there, you know,” he says in the soft voice I heard before I entered. “Just the two of us. Just like the old days. Kentucky. There’s nothin’ stopping us. Think about it.”

“I’ve pretty much lost touch with that world.”

“Still there. Still hummin’ right along. No end to the funny money.”

“I’d be like a fish outta water now, Reese.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you probably would.”

“Well, good luck with that mare. I hope you get her.”

“Oh, I’ll get her all right. Cheap too. She’s the kind that slips right through the cracks. See, nobody has the patience anymore. They want an instant racehorse. They don’t see the potential. The long haul.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You gotta dig deep in this game. See the history behind it. The cause and effect. The gold’s right here, all you gotta do is dig for it.” He thumps the stack of catalogues again, sending more ash floating up into the blue vapor. I resist an urge to go to him and pat him on the shoulder, afraid he might react something like the way Rena did. I would really like to pat him on the shoulder.

As I descend the stairs I hear the kids coming home from school. The boy calling for his dog. The girl shouting good-bye to her friends. The gate banging shut behind them. Their feet brushing through the fallen leaves. I’m full of fear. It’s not just about how I might find Rena in the kitchen; what state she might be in now. It’s not just about seeing his kids eye to eye; hearing them speak to their mother; seeing their cold young breath in the room. It’s about the distance when I leave the yard. When I turn back on the street and look up at his one window where the smoke is. About climbing in my car to drive away. About leaving with no connection. How there might not have ever been one to begin with. How there might not ever be.

I’m crossing the kitchen as the kids bang through the back door, letting all the dogs in. Rena’s yelling: “Take your shoes off! I just mopped the kitchen floor! Don’t let those dogs in here!” She’s captured by her function; her motherhood; her basic survival kit. I stop and stand there dumbly while the dogs crash around my knees. Rena grabs one of them by the collar and starts dragging it toward the back door to throw it out again; a squirming yellow dog with a pink fluorescent collar. She looks back at me in the middle of this with her hair flying wildly across her eyes. There’s a whole different look in her face now. Fierce almost. “Well—” she says. “What’s the story? Did you talk to him?”