“I didn’t take you for one of those sunset worshippers,” Manfred said. He sounded disappointed.

“It was beautiful, last night,” said Janine. “I thought I saw the green flash. But I could have been wrong.”

“The green flash is a myth,” said Manfred. “Though I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it too.”

Inside the dining hall she spooned out a portion of chili mac—a scoop, rounded, like meat-noodle ice cream—and penitentially filled the rest of her plate with salad. She found two women from her class seated in a far corner. They hadn’t said much in workshop, and perhaps they thought Janine said too much. But it was better, wasn’t it, to stick with those you knew? Janine had always felt loyal to whatever group she was assigned, and she only had to stand for a moment with her tray before they waved her over. She was pleased that she remembered their names and where they were from. Maggie, a woman about Janine’s age, was a nurse from Tennessee, and Lilian, a little older, was from Sarasota. Apparently, she wasn’t staying at the ranch; Janine had seen her steer her broad silver Mercedes into the parking lot this morning.

They were in the midst of a conversation about husbands. Both women were leaving theirs. Janine had the momentary thought that she should excuse herself—what would she have to contribute, other than sympathy?—but decided it would be equally awkward to get up again.

“Hopeless,” Maggie was saying about her situation. “We tried counseling at church. Then we went on a special couples retreat where we didn’t speak at all, just communicated nonverbally. But that was hardly any different than what we already had going on at home. Then we tried a special journal we wrote in every night, to say what we appreciated about the other person. Litotes—remember that word, from English class? It means saying something positive in a negative way. She’s not a terrible cook. He hasn’t lost as much hair as I thought he would. That’s what our journal was full of. I actually wrote a bunch of them down, in a poem, and put it in my application here.”

Janine thought she had seen it in the packet, but wasn’t sure if she should mention it.

“The director, Marianne? She told me it was her favorite one. Isn’t that the pits? I’m not even a talented poet. I just have a poetic divorce journal.”