Anthony thought about all of the potential different uses for the word mount. He poured another drink.

More dreams. His father as Jupiter, holding a lightning rod, raising it toward Anthony. Why? Leonard Puckett thundered. Why, why, why? His father as Jesus, nailed to the cross, and Anthony kneeling at his feet along with Mary Magdalene and the rest of the sinners, Leonard pausing in his great suffering to deliver unto Anthony a look of great consternation and disappointment.

He tried his very hardest with Max. Oh, he tried so hard! He did! He wanted to be a good father. He didn’t want Max to see him break down. But one night, while he was reading The Runaway Bunny at bedtime, the words reached out and choked him.

Max was concerned. “Why are you crying, Daddy?” He plucked a Kleenex from the box on his nightstand and began to wipe at Anthony’s face. It was all very organized and businesslike, and that made Anthony even sadder.

“It’s just a sad story, buddy,” Anthony said.

“It’s not that sad,” said Max reasonably. “The mother gets to keep her little bunny, doesn’t she?”

This only caused Anthony to cry harder.

One day he came home from the liquor store—although, if anybody had asked, he was at CVS, picking up cough drops for a tickle he was starting to feel in his throat—and discovered a suitcase packed and sitting by the front door. He found himself smiling expectantly for the first time in, oh, how long? He thought Cassie had planned some sort of trip for them, an overnight where they could talk over a bottle of Sancerre, the way they used to. Or maybe they wouldn’t talk at all—maybe they’d get drunk and have shower sex, which was also something they used to do. He was willing to bet Max was going to stay with his parents. Dorothy Puckett always welcomed a visit from her only grandson.

He heard Cassie’s soft footsteps on the stairs—she walked lightly, like a ballerina, one step below floating.

“You need to pull yourself together,” said Cassie. She didn’t look like someone who was about to go on an overnight; she was wearing running shorts and a tank top and a baseball hat, and she was sweating prettily.

“I know,” he said. “I’m trying. Tomorrow I’m going to—”

Cassie cut him off. “Not here.” Her voice was crisp and sure, like a kindergarten teacher directing the class to the story circle.

“But . . .” The set of her eyes caused in him a physical reaction, like a punch to the stomach would. “But I live here.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Anthony.”

For the first time in his life Anthony understood—more than that, he inhabited—the phrase completely struck dumb. They were not going on an overnight. There would be no shower sex. He waited for some time, until he was un-struck, and then he said, “You can’t do what?”

“I can’t watch this shitstorm unfold anymore. It’s not good for anyone here. It’s not good for Max to see you like this.”