She did not think. She could not think. High above the house, she looked down on the red-roofed empty barn and the church steeple. Today she had her weekly appointment with Pastor Denny. He was kind. It helped to talk about Zachary, about her family in India, about things in America that confused her, like the way people spoke to one another with less civility than she was accustomed to. She dreaded and longed to read what Zachary had sent. Finally, she sank to the grass and, hands shaking, opened the envelope. With growing disbelief, anger, and disappointment, she read:

Dear Sarina,

There are no words to apologize for packing my bags and walking out on you and Sarah, so I will not do so. This letter finds me working on a fishing sloop off of the coast of Peru. The anchovy catch is meager and the boat stinks. I will be leaving here soon for fairer climes and more lucrative occupation. I do miss you and Sarah.

Liar, she thought. Once a liar, always a liar. She had never told her parents, or Max and Hannah, or anyone else the truth that Zachary was not, as they all believed, an accomplished hiker and mountain climber. Her brother, Sanjay, in reply to her suspicions and pressing questions, had reluctantly admitted that he and Zachary met, not on a Himalayan climb, but in a tavern in Nepal after an aborted mountain climb of Sanjay’s. They had awakened from a night of excessive drinking to find themselves on a train bound for India and her family’s home, and had concocted a lie, which, over time, Sanjay said, they had come to believe.

And now, after weeks of silence, when she had finally stopped crying herself to sleep at night, he had written this self-centered letter to drive a knife once more into her heart? She would tear it to shreds. She would not subject herself to his lies, his cruelty and lack of compassion. Folding the letter, she held it in both hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and prepared to rip the paper apart. Impossible. Sarina unfolded the letter and continued reading.

I cannot live in one place, settle for some mundane, nine-to-five job. Much as it hurts me to say this, and I know it will hurt you even more to hear it, I cannot return to Covington, nor can I offer you a home anywhere else, not now and possibly never. Believe me, I have loved you and still do and I love our daughter. I hope periodically to visit you both, but that will not be for a long time. I know that you are surrounded by people who love you and will care for you. Divorce me if you wish. You are free to make whatever decision you deem best. If you can, remember me with pleasure, as I remember you.

Zachary