I heard stories about DeLois’s parents, especially her father. About her job, a necessity. About her classes. Ceramics, the evidence of which surrounded us. Macramé. Refrigerator repair.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve fixed the unit in the diner twice already. I can work on my car too. You have to be self-sufficient out here.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I want to help,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“With the women. Let me help.”

“Help me with what? Why?”

“It’s easy enough to become alone in the world. Even without living way out here like I do.” She touched my hand.

“You should drive me back,” I said.

“You don’t have to leave.”

“You should drive me back.”

And so she did.

I called Meg and we struggled through a tense silence.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just have to be alone. Are you all right?” It was a stupid question.

“Are you coming home?”

“Yes. I love you, Meg.”

She said nothing.

“I’ll be home soon.”

She hung up.

To say that I felt bad was an understatement. I rationalized my indulgence by thinking that everyone has to process grief in her or his own way. The rationalization was yet another indulgence. I tried to sleep. I’m quite certain I did. And I probably dreamed. And I was probably disturbed by those dreams. Probably.

Once again in my dingy little Motel 6 room, I stared at the ceiling while listening to the loop of CNN, hearing but not acknowledging that the world was happening someplace else. I consumed a lot of the foods I would never let my daughter eat. Stress eating, boredom eating, whatever, it was the kind of mindless eating that would make me fat and eventually dead. The doctor said it’ll kill me, but he didn’t say when.

I set the thermostat on the noisy unit below the window cold enough that I could pull the blanket and sheet over me, as if I needed some kind of layer between me and whatever else there was. It was Monday night. In three days it would be Thursday.

It was hotter in New Mexico.