“Nothing’s going on. I was thinking was all.”

“I’m happy. Happy right where I am.”

“I can see that. But you given any thought to next year? The year after that?”

“Not too much. Some. I want to get the pup started this fall. Maybe, she works out, I might try raising some more of these setters. Maybe keep a few of the best ones, get them started, sell them that way. That’s where the money is.”

“Be a dog-man.”

“I don’t know what else. I haven’t got that figured out.”

“That’s all right. There’s time.”

Foster blew air through his lips. “New Mexico.”

Jamie grinned. “It was just an idea.”

Quiet then. A long pause. Then Foster said, “You heading out somewhere tonight?”

“A little business. Might be late. You want something, want me to drop you somewhere?”

“No. I’m fine to stay home. You want me to ride along with you?”

“No. It’s no big thing.”

“I’ll ride if you want.”

Jamie shook his head. “There’s no need. Like I said, it could be late.”

“All night maybe?”

Jamie smiled. “It’s not what you think. Tell the truth, I wish it were.”

“It wouldn’t bother me you had a lady friend.”

“Is that so?”

“It wouldn’t.”

“Well, then.” Jamie stood, ran his hands up under his braces to smooth his shirt. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It was well past dark when he left the house but he felt no urgency, driving away with the same easy calm over him the supper had brought forth. Focused and steady. Came up into Bethlehem and thought of Foster earlier in the day, no doubt cruising the small streets as lord of the way, and with this bemusement fresh over him he recalled the little snub-nosed automatic tucked up under the seat. He reached down and felt for it, his fingers against the crosshatched grip, thinking still of Foster. It wasn’t fear of Foster finding the gun; the boy had known, without ever being told, not to poke anywhere, to leave things be. It was the fear of needing the gun. A complicated, essential fear: that he might not be able to protect any single thing, come down to it.

A dank mood and a rank mind. Hotel guests were out walking the lamplighted streets of Bethlehem. He drove slowly. Not looking side to side but straight ahead.

He took the long way over the hills to Franconia, the back way, the rough track. It was still early. He stopped three quarters of the way where the small meadow opened amongst the trees. He left the car running and took the automatic out from under the seat and got out. The gun heavy in his hand. A good thing, that weight. In the headlamp beam he studied the safety lever and moved it up and down, on and off. Then pointed the gun out ahead of him down into the ground and clamped his right index finger hard back against the trigger. The noise an abrupt rupture in the night. The gun leaped in his hand. As an echo to the concussion of the firing heard the deep whomps as the soft-nosed bullets drove into the ground. Saw a faint spatter of dirt and torn grass rise. Satisfaction. He was a little bit restored. He knelt in the pale tangerine light and reloaded the clip and shoved it home. Another click of satisfaction hearing the snap of the mechanism grasp the clip. He left the safety off and got back in the car, now setting the gun in the glove box.