So he’d made a stop here, at a dive of a motel, along with truck drivers and Disney-bound tourists and college students whose energy for copulation was quite astonishing, as well as noisy.

Now, close to 8:00 a.m., March rose slowly to waking, thinking about the dream he’d just had.

Often Serena. Sometimes Jessica.

This one had been about Todd.

Todd at Harrison Gorge. It was in upstate New York, on a busy river, one that led ultimately to the Hudson.

The park and nearby town, colonial era, was a romantic getaway, four hours from Manhattan. The day he was thinking of, the Day of Todd, was nestled in the midst of leaf season. Officially out of school then, working in sales, he’d been in Ithaca, New York, a call. He’d kept some sentimental ties to academia by working for a company that sold audiovisual equipment to colleges. After a lackluster pitch at Cornell, he’d recognized the symptoms: edgy, depressed. The Get was prodding. He’d canceled a second meeting and left, driving back to his motel.

He saw the park on the way and decided, on a whim, to check it out. March spent an hour hiking along the trails, surrounded by leaves spectacular even in light mellowed by overcast. March had his camera and he shot some pictures as he walked. The rocks, brown and gray like ancient bone, and stark tree trunks impressed him more than the colors.

Click, click, click…

March had spotted a sign, HARRISON GORGE, and followed the arrow.

Although the weather had thinned the visitors, he came upon a cluster of people—mostly young, rugged outdoor people, rock-climbing people. Helmets and ropes and well-used backpacks. One young man had stood off to the side, looking down at the water. Someone had called his name.

Todd…

Blond, cut and muscled, about March’s age. Lean, handsome face. Eyes that would probably be confident at any other time. But not today. The others left; Todd remained.

And March had approached.

Listen, Todd, I know it’s a big leap. I know you’re scared. But come on, don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine. If you never try something, you never know, do you?

I see you have a Get of your own to scratch.

Come on… A little closer, closer.

Go for it, Todd. Go for it.

Yes, yes, yes…

Antioch March smiled at the memory. It seemed both from another life and as real as yesterday.

He stretched. Okay. Time to get to work. March showered and dressed. He looked in the mirror and smiled once more. The blond hair was just plain odd.

He made coffee from the pot and used the powdered creamer. Breakfast was included but he certainly wouldn’t go to the common room, where others might see him. The description of the man who had “allegedly” caused the Solitude Creek tragedy did not include his face. But he thought it best to be cautious. He sipped the pungent brew and turned on the TV.

March finished packing. He dumped the coffee out, wiped away finger­prints throughout the place using a sanitizer wipe (plain cloth doesn’t work). He stepped outside into the clear, cool air. Gazing around, at the oak and brush, the brown hills, the lot and highway for anyone watching him, any threats.