The salesman waved his hand after thirty seconds. “Stop. Start again, slower,” he said. “That first part was really long.”

“ ‘Enantiotropy,’ ” I read, and reread the first stanza.

“Boy oh boy,” said the salesman.

“Do you still want to listen, or should I just quit?” I asked.

“I’m listening. . . .”

I read all sixteen pages of the poem.

“You wrote that? That’s all yours!” he said. “It’s science? Or social science? What would you classify it?”

“Well, it’s a poem now, is all.”

He said, “I get that. Yeah. Which I liked. I liked it a lot but . . .”

“What? Go ahead and tell me.”

“I liked the poetical writing,” he said.

“Never mind, fine. You don’t need to say anything else. What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Jeff.”

“Jeff. Great. I only wanted for someone to listen. Now I see it could be better. That it still needs tinkering.”

“O.K., but can I ask you something?” he said. “Why’d you write that? Did somebody make you, or assign it to you, or what?”

“No, I just got interested in the idea.”

During my reading, Jeff had stripped off his jacket. His thick waist had lifted the tube of his vest. His shoulders were wide, though; his biceps hard with muscle.

“Did you do free weights? My husband again. He did them for a while.”

“Believe me,” Jeff said, “I have done free weights. I’m in one-seventy, you wanna talk more or anything. We could go to dinner. You know, we ought to. I’m on an account.”

“Good, because I’m not, and these motel stops are breaking me.”

“So let’s do. One-seventy,” he said again.

I hiked a mile along the mud ridges behind the motel after I spoke to Raymond.

“Good, good, this is good, talk to him,” Pru had said and surrendered the phone.

“Paige,” Raymond said—just my name.

“Hi, I finally got you. I wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I left.”

“Case of this time she does the leavin’.”

“Oh, please don’t think that, Raymond. Remember how you said Raf’s just ashamed and confused? That he’s not running from me? Well, I’m all of those, and scared.”

“Of?”

“Not sure . . .”

“That was horseshit about Raf,” Raymond said. “You left the next morning. Couldn’t of thrown a dart straighter at the bull’s-eye. You were runnin’ from me.”

I thought about saying I was running after Raf; telling Raymond I’d got the postcard. But running after, running from—neither was true and both were.

I stood in some glacial valley now. There were rock-mean mountains all around and, crowding down on them, the white northern sky.