She wipes her face with her robe sleeve and he gives her a little smile. “Let’s go away this weekend. I’ll find a place up north. We can spend all day in bed reading or lying out by the lake, whatever you want to do. How’s that sound?”

“Heavenly.” She smiles. A weekend reconnecting is perfect. They can push aside the disappointment. They can make love for the first time in what seems like forever. They can talk about other things aside from making babies.

“I’ll book it. But first”—Mark says, rising—“I got something to cheer you up. I popped into Target to buy a water and this was on display near the registers. It made me think of you.” His hand dives into the Target bag. He flashes a CD, but Joy doesn’t catch the album title or artist.

“Who is it?”

“Some guy named Trace. Trace the Outlines is the band’s name.” He slices a fingernail through the plastic, unwraps the CD.

“Never heard of them.”

“Me neither. It’s their debut. But I like the title.” He shows her the cover. Joyride.

A hint of a smile touches her mouth, lifts the corners.

Mark goes to the entertainment center and puts on the CD. He dials up the volume and the sound blindsides her. A slap to her cheek. A whip across her back. It rocks her to the core.

Three chords in, and she has no doubt about the song. First stanza in, and she’s trembling.

Trace’s vocals reach her, a rich tenor with a rough undertone that reminds her of hot summer days driving along a historic two-lane highway with a man whose memories have haunted her since. Dylan isn’t singing and this isn’t his album. But those are his lyrics and the music he wrote to go along with them. By the end of the first verse, tears dampen her face. Her reaction to the music is sudden and strong, and entirely unexpected.

Mark turns away from the CD player, mouth parted as if to say something, and freezes.

“What’s wrong? Is it the music?”

Joy shakes her head, covering her ears. Mark looks confused.

“Your job? Is it the therapy? Don’t go if it makes you this upset.”

Joy shakes her head again.

“Then what is it?”

“Turn it off.”

“What?” he asks, baffled.

“Turn it off. Turn off the music.” Her voice rises when he’s too slow on the uptake.

Mark stabs the power button and the music cuts out. Joy bursts into tears. She runs to the bathroom and locks the door. Sinking to the floor, she drops her head in her hands and sobs.

Later that evening, long after Joy has calmed, she finds Mark nursing a bottle of Knob Creek in the front parlor. She collects a crystal-cut lowball from the sideboard and pours herself two fingers. Why not? She isn’t pregnant.