We stayed in a peeling-paint motel off Highway 15. Guys in jogging suits bummed cigarettes from other guys in jogging suits; boys carried unplugged televisions in their arms, holding plastic bags of chips and candy between their teeth. Tired-looking women emerged from some doors and disappeared into other ones. I thought of Alice, who would have known how to tell stories about this place. She would have enchanted it.

In our dingy room, Tom pulled out his BlackBerry. The buttons glowed in the darkness, sending messages everywhere on earth. He typed with speed and purpose.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Buying a company?”

He smiled. I’d found the right thing to say, and then I’d said it. This was a good feeling. Sometimes I was afraid it was the only good feeling I had left.

I convinced him to go swimming. I wore an old shirt and boxers I’d stolen from Louis to remember him by. Now they were going to smell like chlorine, not like a man, and they weren’t going to remind me of Louis so much as they’d remind me of myself, missing him one night in a motel pool in the middle of nowhere.

I felt proud to watch Tom’s body gliding through the dark hide of the water, to see him living inside these moments I’d imagined into being. He ended up staying longer than I did.

Back in the room, while he was still in the pool, I found Tom’s backpack. It held three energy bars, one bottle of water, and a brown folder marked MEYER ACCOUNT. There was an envelope with Matilda’s name written in cursive. Mom had written on a piece of card stock with her own name embossed in gold at the top.

Dear Tilly,

I hope you have found a life that brings you happiness. I have never wished you ill, though I know you often thought I did—and told me this, so many times—but the truth today, as ever, is this: I wish you only the best. Though I hope you realize this letter doesn’t imply a desire to communicate with you further or otherwise resume our relationship. I didn’t want there to be any confusion.

All best,

Dora

I watched Tom sleep that night: chest moving up and down, mouth open. His nostrils flared slightly, and his hands made loose fists. He was powering up, gathering secret energies for the day to come. During kindergarten, the only way I could fall asleep was if he slept on my floor. No skin off my back, he’d said. One time I woke up and saw his eyes, close and staring, bright whites in the dark. You breathe faster than any other human being, he whispered. I counted.

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