“No. Go on, Foster Pelham. Look! What’ve you got here? That old ruint suitcase? Your gun? Those dogs’ll carry themselves out to your car. There’s this old sleeping bag. Here.” And without getting off the bed she rolled sideways and pulled it from under her and still sitting on the bed folded it and placed it on the end of the tick. “There. You’re all set.”

“Daphne—”

“You be quiet! Whatever it is you want to say, I don’t want to hear it! Maybe you found what it was you couldn’t say the other night. Well, that’s an old song and dance. I don’t want any part of it. Keep it, Foster. Keep it for yourself. Tell yourself those things. I don’t want to hear it. Just go. Just get out of here. Get away from me.”

He stood silent before her. Feeling crude, shambling, struck by her fury. After a time, knowing it was the wrong thing but not clear what else he might do, he said, “At least let me give you a lift out to your house.”

Her head jerked up to look at him, her eyes wild with anger. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to set right here. I don’t want any rides from you. Just get the fuck out of here.”