Howard poured out the coffee to make another pot. He had the reel propped up on the counter and had been reading the instructions. “How much do any of us recognize each other? Or ourselves?”

“Thanks, Dad. Very helpful,” said Marianne. Later, she tried writing in her new notebook; she had to press hard on the uneven pages to form the words, which looked like they’d been set down by someone writing with the wrong hand. She’d been thinking of the yellow Tea Party signs, stenciled sloppily in black, which appeared now at regular roadside intervals on the way to her father’s house. The poem, even incomplete, was longer than anything she’d written in months. She took photographs of the pages she’d composed and tried to text them to Eric, but her phone had only one bar of service, and the messages failed.

In the new year, driving south with a half-written poem in her bag, things looked better to Marianne. It was satisfying to note the way the landscape gradually became green again, as if she were fast-forwarding into spring. The squat palmetto trees and stalky palms looked familiar now, the pro-life billboards and stark messages from God (Where Would You Spend Eternity if You Died Today?) merely an editing problem (wouldn’t “If You Died Today, Where Would You Spend Eternity?” be more gripping?).

In Georgia she stopped at a rest stop and finished her poem, a memory of seeing a bald eagle flying, a long black snake writhing in its talons, which turned into a reflection about the unnaturally coiled Don’t Tread on Me snake she’d seen on so many flags at home.

She felt shaky, getting out of the car in the humid January air. Part of her wanted to keep writing in her lumpy notebook, but she had hours more driving ahead. Instead she went inside, fed wrinkled dollars into a snack machine that spat out bags of chips and cookies. Driving again, she ate them ravenously.

She considered stopping in to see Frances—in four months she still had not met her, mostly out of fear. It had occurred to her that Eric had not seen his aunt in some time. What if Frances was diminished or impaired? How would they feel about following the Christian-commercial whims of someone out of her right mind? The way Sophie described her, she didn’t sound like someone who would want to start an inspirational writing school.

But perhaps they would get along great—maybe Frances would be just as Eric described, funny and sharp and generous. Maybe she’d have some pointers for dealing with the students. Relationship advice? She’d settle for gardening tips. It would be great to have another Florida associate, someone to run ideas by, to reassure her—Sophie was too appraising, and Marianne thought she was perhaps a little eager for the students to show up. Maybe she imagined them fleeing—for the Manatee Inn! Maybe she just wanted some entertainment, a way to pass the time. Frances, on the other hand, was certainly rooting for its success.