Lee strapped on the protective pads, palming the biscuit in one glove, and then stood his ground. Goose was led back into place, fifteen yards away. Lee looked into the dog’s eyes. They were black, absorbing all light and emanating nothing in return. Lee inclined his head. He gave a small half smile. He could not be the only creature in the universe who wanted things softer than himself not to suffer. Was it possible, maybe, to flirt with this dog?

“Good boy,” he said.

Three seconds later, Goose had knocked him to the ground and was barking savagely, an overwhelming and terrifying racket that caused his handler to break form and race for him. Lee submissively got into position, facedown, hands behind his head. His biscuit slid out of his glove, and Goose picked it up between his teeth, and gingerly, as if carrying a fresh egg, brought it to his trainer’s feet. Then he sat down and looked toward Lee, with a clear look of j’accuse.

Lee drew extra latrine duty that night.

He went to Paris. He was in the City of Light for a grand total of twelve hours. He spent two of them walking in unexpected humidity (every other day it had rained), thirty minutes sitting in a park, fifteen minutes flirting with a woman, and the remaining time pressed against her in an apartment with open windows, high ceilings, white plaster walls displaying lithographs of Italian villas, and bunches of dried flowers that were hung upside down over the great sleigh bed. She had a half dozen easels with half-finished egg-tempera still lifes, gesso stains on the tables, unstretched canvases in stacks, and when he’d undressed her, she told him to mind the razor blades she’d dropped on the carpet.

Since she never finished her paintings, she made love with great passion (she said that explained it, but she said many things).

He tried to tell her his name approximately sixteen times. Touching her finger to his lips, shaking her head, she said, “C’est la guerre,” as if this also were an explanation, rather than just a phrase that amused her.

Afterward, she pushed back the bangs of her short hair and evaluated him. She told him she had picked him up because he was plainly so sad, and she planned to leave him happier than when she had found him.

“That,” she said, pointing to the place their bodies still touched, “was like this.” She displayed her hand, tucked into a fist. “What’s going through your heart?”

“I don’t think I have one. I wish I did.”

Her cheeks pulsed, for she was going to burst out laughing. “Oh, but you do,” she said, and she pointed to her own. It was said for the sound of it.

“How did that happen?” he whispered. The more serious he was, the more serious she looked in response. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said.