Marge steered the unmarked onto Foothill Boulevard, the division’s main thoroughfare that hugged the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. The sun had burned away the smog and a dry wind was whipping through the air. The two-lane street had no sidewalks and was lined with an odd mixture of the industrial and agricultural—ramshackle ranches stuffed between two blocks’ worth of building-supply wholesalers, brickyards next to specimen-tree nurseries. Marge drove past rows of potted trees laid out like tombstones, past a large stretch of dried-up spillway floored with smooth, chalky-gray boulders. A shirtless cowboy was riding a horse along the arid bed, one hand on the reins, the other gripping a leash attached to a black Labrador retriever.

The road crossed over the spillway, and a moment later, they whizzed past parkland. A half-dozen teenage boys were playing basketball on an asphalt court radiating heat waves. Off to the side was a shaded playground. Mothers, wearing short-sleeved shirts and pleated shorts, were pushing toddlers in swings, fanning themselves with the palms of their hands. Opposite the park were a K mart and a sheet-metal plant.

A TV jingle played through Marge’s brain, an ad for a supermarket that claimed to cater to Middle America. She sang, “‘Don’t have a big, foreign car…’”

Decker looked at her.

“‘Don’t have a mansion on a hill…’”

“You could have fooled me,” Decker said.

“‘But I’m an Amerricann…’”

Decker said, “Know what I see when I look at those ersatz good old folks commercials? Card-carrying members of SAG, making union scale, hoping that the commercial’s aired a hundred times a day so they can have a big, foreign car or a mansion on a hill.”

“But look at this natural beauty, Pete,” Marge said, pointing to a gravel yard. “Now would you really give this all up if…say, you hit the big spin in the lottery?”

Decker let go with a full laugh.

Marge said, “And what would you do with all of that free time on your hands?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lots of things come to mind,” Decker said. He thought, Most of them have to do with Rina and a bedroom.

As if she read his thoughts, Marge asked, “How’s Rina?”

“Hanging in there,” Decker said. “She’s moving back.”

“No shit,” Marge said. “What prompted that?”

“My prowess.”

Marge smiled. “I’m happy for you, Pete.”

“Thanks,” Decker said. “I’m really happy myself.”

“You two going to do it?”

“If she doesn’t change her mind again, yes.”

“You’re not nervous about it?”

“No,” Decker said. “Not at all.”

“I’m petrified of marriage,” Marge said. “What if it’s the wrong one? Charlie Benko’s right about one thing. People aren’t baseballs. I’m not the type to just throw the bum out. Even if I realized I made a very baaaad mistake.”