I was restless. Even after my shift had ended I wasn’t ready to go home and entertain my old thoughts of Louise. I wanted to be finished with her then. I went to the office and stared at my pile of paperwork. I didn’t get home until midafternoon, feeling guilty for the thousandth time that I had left my wife so long alone.

Aida met me at the door with news of her own. Louise had been to the house. I wanted to know what had happened, felt the desire to know rise in me. I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to act disinterested. I fingered the stitching of the tablecloth.

“I’m beat,” I said. My years on the force had taught me a few things. I had learned that when people think you are too anxious to hear their stories they shut right up like they hadn’t realized they were offering you something of value. It was a good lesson too. It worked.

“She was just outside,” Aida said, almost breathless, “outside with that man.”

I slipped off my jacket and let it rest on the back of the chair. I drummed my fingers on the table and looked at the salt and pepper shakers. After a long enough while I asked, “Did she come to see me?”

Aida shrugged her shoulders. “I think she was just looking for a place to run. They were fighting,” she said.

“Was she hurt?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

“Her nose was bleeding if that’s what you mean. But she wasn’t hurt. She was fighting him.” I looked at Aida. She had just washed her hair. Little dribbles of water stained the shoulders of her blouse. “She hauled off and kicked him in the balls,” she said. “Last I saw of him he was hurting.” I didn’t care about Yellow Knife. I was pleased to hear he’d gotten a good swift kick to his best memories.

“Where’d she go?” I asked but I couldn’t hide my concern. My voice had shifted an octave higher.

“How would I know,” Aida said. “Is she all you care about?”