“At GWGW, we believe that our students need to be given the tools to access success—on their terms. It’s one of our founding philosophies,” she said, tapping a screen on her tablet and holding it up for Eric and Davonte to see. “That’s one of the things we like so well about the Ranch. You are built to honor the students’ needs for a flexible schedule.”

“The low-residency model is pretty well established, actually,” said Eric.

“But combined with your focus on faith—that’s what makes the school unique. Plus a flexible schedule and availability to the students’ needs. I think what Davonte needs is someone to help him, to get him started. Would that be useful to you, Davonte?”

“Definitely,” he said. “It would also be great if the Ranch had a gym.”

Regina typed that into her tablet, too. “I just know that with my marketing contacts, and Eric’s talent, we can help you make a big splash in the publishing world.”

“Have you read my book?” Eric asked suddenly. He couldn’t help it—it was a question that seemed to ask itself.

“Have I read Copper Creek?” Regina hefted her formidable handbag from the floor and plucked a copy—hardcover—from the side pocket. It was like a glimpse of lacy bra, a flash of panties. He was helpless. She shyly slid his novel toward him. “I was hoping to get your autograph.”

In her room, Marianne waited for the sound of Eric’s door opening and closing, and kept peeking through her window to see lamplight in his window. But his window was dark when she peeked, and dark when she peeked again, five minutes later. This was the time of day when Marianne was supposed to be writing poems; her black notebook was waiting on the bureau. She had not opened it in days; her only recent writing, other than work emails and memos, had been unreturned texts and emails to Ruth.

She wanted to talk to him about his date—that’s what she would call it, teasingly—with the prim, capitalist Regina. Where had they gone, and what had they talked about? Had Davonte stuck to his diet? No carbs, she’d specified, though Regina had invited them to an Italian place. No carbs and no dessert. Nothing fried. Eric had seemed preoccupied, changing his shirt twice until he finally decided on a pale blue button-down, khaki pants, and the blazer he’d let her borrow on the beach. You look like your brother, she’d said, reaching to brush a scrap of bloody tissue from his face. He’d looked at her like she’d slapped him.

She’d make it up to him, when he got back. She would walk right across the courtyard and knock on his door; she’d lounge across one of the beds in Eric’s room and ask him to tell her about his whole day—the afternoon workshop, the dinner, the drive back from the restaurant with Davonte. She wouldn’t say, as she often did, hurry up, get on with it. She’d listen.