“I was just down the street at the Pattersons’,” she says. “Bill’s liver cancer has accelerated, and the poor man’s the color of a lemon. He claims he feels fine, but I swear he’s last-stage. And Dora may as well be on cloud nine, rattling on about next year’s Kiwanis flea market while her husband is sitting there in his BarcaLounger about to expire. It really is shocking. Is that Frankie?”

“Hi, Mrs. Bennett,” Frankie calls from the table.

“My, you certainly have … grown up.”

She’s noticing his drawn face, his gray hair, Teresa thinks. Grown up means ill when she says it. She probably told Mr. Patterson he looked spry. “Would you like something to drink?” Teresa immediately feels the need to clarify. “Water. Or Pepsi. I’m sure that’s all we have.”

“No, thank you. This really is a business call …”

Mrs. Bennett’s voice trails off. Her roving eyes have settled on one of Frankie’s drawings, framed and hanging over the stereo. In the drawing, his VW is suspended in midair over a field, held in place by a beam of light that emanates from somewhere above the top of the frame. “That certainly is an … interesting picture. Is it original?”

It’s a print, Teresa wants to say. I bought it at the Salvation Army.

“I did it,” Frankie says. “Do you like it?”

Mrs. Bennett’s head tips gradually to one side. “I love original art,” she finally says. “What inspired you?”

“One time, I drove to Alabama to see this prophet, and right after I left his house—”

Teresa cuts him off. “So this petition, what exactly is it for?”

“I’m trying to get as many signatures as I can to protest the relay tower. As home-owners, we have a say. Just because this town’s not incorporated doesn’t mean the nearest local government gets to decide who tears down our woods.”

This is going to take a few minutes, Teresa can tell. She holds her hand out, indicating the sofa, and Mrs. Bennett sits down at one end. Teresa sits in the armchair next to her.

“Honestly, I wish you’d shown up at the demonstration. Things like that can really make a difference. We were on the local news.”

“But aren’t they supposed to start bulldozing any day now?” Teresa asks. “It seems a little late for a petition.”

“Call me an optimist. I know we can’t stop the construction at this stage. But it’s still going to take them a while to get the tower up and running, and we might be able to slow that down.” She slides the clipboard forward across the slick legs of her jogging suit. A pen is attached to the top with a little piece of Velcro.

“I haven’t really made up my mind on the matter,” Teresa says.