His house was quiet and still. The door was open and she pressed her face to the dusty screen. All the windows were open, too, and a shrill wind battered the window shades. “Hello,” she called. “Is anybody home?” There was no answer. She opened the screen door and stepped inside. She noticed one clean plate, a single fork in the drain rack. On the kitchen table she saw an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Ashes spilled over on a fan of bills. A cup sat on the table, half-filled with black coffee. A sack of empty bourbon bottles leaned against a chair. She stepped closer, saw the red stamps on each one. PAST DUE. UNPAID. FINAL NOTICE. On the corner of the table were more bills, a stack of them left unopened. She took a hard swallow. “Jules,” she called, her voice soft. She was going to leave the fry bread on his counter but she looked past the kitchen toward the hallway. She believed he was in the far field mending fence, or herding cattle up to his winter fields. His house seemed empty to Louise as if he had been gone a long time.

She knew she should leave. She felt she was violating something beyond just his privacy; she was learning something about herself. She wanted to see the room he slept in again, the room she had slept in with him. She had a desire to see all the things he possessed, the life he led alone. She walked down the dim hall aware of the faint sour smell of mice. She stopped for a moment to listen and heard the sound of someone sleeping, the slow, even breath of Jules. It was early afternoon, too late to be sleeping, much too late for a rancher to be in bed. Her heart quickened and she had an urge to leave again, but she was drawn to him because he was unaware of her presence. She was hidden from him, a snake in the grass coming closer. She peered into the bedroom.