“Very funny.” He walked across the gravel driveway to the mailbox, opening the metal door, throwing in the envelope and pulling up the red flag. He walked back across the gravel, stepping carefully in his bare feet. Ronda would pick up the mail around lunch; it would get to the post office around four, get to Phoenix by the next morning, and probably arrive in Washington two or three days after that. It would be cutting it close, but he would probably make it.

He went back inside to make out bills.

Doug and Tritia ate lunch on the porch, sandwiches, while Billy ate inside and watched reruns of Andy Griffith. The weather was warm but nice, and they tilted the umbrella on the table to keep out the worst of the sun. Afterward, Doug did the dishes and they both retired to the butterfly chairs on the porch to read.

An hour passed, but Doug could not relax and enjoy himself. He kept looking up from his book, listening for the sputtery cough of Bob Ronda’s engine, the metallic squeal of old brakes, thinking of his application wasting away in the mailbox, curiously annoyed that the mailman had not shown up on time. He looked over at Trish. “The mail hasn’t come yet, has it?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Shit,” he muttered. He knew it was stupid to turn Ronda into a scapegoat when it was his own stupidity that had led him to wait this long before sending the grant application, but he could not help feeling a little angry at the mailman. Where the hell was he? He returned to his book, trying to read, but soon gave it up, unable to appreciate the words in front of him. His mind kept wandering and he found himself reading the same sentence over and over again, not comprehending. He placed his book on the plastic table next to him and settled into the chair, closing his eyes for a moment. He heard Trish get up, open the door, go inside. He heard the humming wash of water through pipes as she poured herself something to drink in the kitchen.

But he did not hear the mailman’s car.