Ever since Stefan went to prison, I had a recurring dream, not quite a nightmare but a grim fantasy of sorts. I was at his arraignment and the judge pointed at me and asked me to explain how all this had happened. I was willing to do that, but every time I tried to speak, I had to stop to remove handfuls of gravel from my mouth. I’d try again, only to find myself spewing little pebbles that chunked onto the table in front of me.

“Well,” I said. “Jill was there.”

He dropped the sheet of paper, hunched his shoulders and jerked, gazing behind him. “Where? Where is she?”

“Not here. She was at the prison, before you came out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“It seemed like too much. I’m sorry.”

“Jill was at the prison and you didn’t tell me because it seemed like too much?” Stefan reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair.

“She left before you even came out!”

“What if she had a gun or something?”

“A gun? Jill?”

He picked up the sodden paper. “Well, who did this?”

“I have no idea. Who knew we were here, I mean, here at this diner?” We both scanned the edges of the parking lot then. Who was here just moments ago? Who was here now? With a camera? With maybe a gun? I scrabbled for the keys. “And who had access to a photo printer so quickly? Somebody took this, like with their phone, and then must have sent it to somebody else.”

“That’s pretty elaborate.”

You really have no idea, I thought. And he really did have no idea. I’d never told Stefan in any real detail about how persistent the protestors had been in front of our house. He watched television, I knew, but he’d never mentioned seeing any local coverage of SAY. I got the impression that the tastes in the prison common went more toward action movies and game shows than news from the small town where we lived, hundreds of miles away. How would he feel when he saw the protestors live on our doorstep?

As we got closer to Portland, the town where we lived, the snow was tapering off and Stefan was all but leaning out of the window like a golden retriever. I thought he would jump out and start to run. “Did Dad text? Did he get home?”

“I’m sure he’ll be there.”