Gregory swung extravagantly from mood to mood. Since, as everyone said, he fully deserved good fortune (wasn’t he the best of the lot?), he suspected he would never receive it; then again, how could he not receive it, since in fact he was deserving?

It was like trying to conceive of mortality, he said. Trying to envision the world on the morning after your death.

Marya had tried each of the strategies in turn though none really suited her. She vowed not to be bitter if the decision went against her, then again, why shouldn’t she be bitter? bitter and angry and resentful? By the morning of the bicycle ride she no longer knew how she felt at all; even if she felt anything. Perhaps she was burnt out already, at the age of twenty-eight. Perhaps the initiation into her profession was in fact a powerful emetic.

Marya thought, observing Gregory whom she loved, Do we have a future, or only futures?

Sometimes she thought one way, sometimes another. She had no idea what Gregory thought.

AFTER LUNCH THE day deteriorated rapidly.

The pain between Marya’s shoulder blades returned. Her kneecaps seemed to have calcified during the long luxurious rest. As Gregory bicycled ahead, leading them through traffic, Marya found it increasingly difficult to match her pace with his. The red headband leaped and swam in her vision.

Suddenly the river road widened, leading inland. It was now a four-lane highway dangerous with trucks; Marya felt nauseated by the diesel fumes. Perspiration ran down her striving sides, her hair whipped fiercely in the wind. She was struck by a childish sort of panic: what if Gregory abandoned her, what if he simply forgot her. . . . She had been an idiot to put herself in so vulnerable a position, pitting her inadequate strength against his. . . .

Patiently, sweetly, without a word of adverse comment, he waited for her atop hills; his face too was rather luridly sunburnt, and slick with perspiration. Now he couldn’t ask her if she would like to turn back because it was too late to turn back. Now he didn’t dare ask how she felt because he could see the exhaustion in her face.

Poor Marya. Poor luckless Marya.

On a long steep hill just above Nelson’s Mills, one of the longest and steepest and most luxurious downhill stretches of the entire day, Marya began to pull away from Gregory; she supposed it was dangerous but she couldn’t resist. Coasting so freely and effortlessly, she was able for once to sit up straight and ease the ache in her spine . . . she was able to grip the handlebar with one hand. . . .