Trish came back out, her bare feet loud on the creaking wood, and he opened his eyes. Something was wrong. Bob Ronda inevitably came by about eleven or, at the very latest, twelve. He was a talker and he often stopped to chat with people, but he also knew his job and was extraordinarily efficient in his work. New people were added to the route each year, families arrived to vacation in their summer homes, but somehow Ronda found the time to talk, to deliver the mail, and to still finish his route by four. He had been delivering the mail for the past twenty years, as he would tell anyone who would listen, since Willis had been on a star route with so few people that being a mailman was a part-time job. He now wore a postal service cap, but he still favored Levi’s and western wear, and he still drove his beat-up blue Dodge. A tall heavy man with a white beard and mustache, Ronda took his postal-service credo very seriously and had been known to deliver mail even when he was ill. Which was why he had never, to Doug’s knowledge, been late with his delivery.

Until now.

He glanced at his watch. It was two-fifteen.

He stood up. “I’m going to go into town and drop off my application at the post office. I can’t wait any longer. Mail leaves town at four. If that thing doesn’t get in on time, I’m dead.”

“You shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“I know. But I thought I already mailed it.”

Trish stood up, pulling out her sweaty shorts where they stuck to her buttocks. “I’m going into town anyway, I’ll drop it off.”

“Why are you going to town?”

“Dinner,” she said. “I forgot to pick up everything I needed yesterday.”

“I’ll go.”

She shook her head. “You’ll stay here and rest. Because tomorrow you are going to paint the porch.”

“Oh, I am, am I?”

“Yes you are. Now go get your letter. I’ll put on my shoes and sort through the coupons.”

Chuckling, Doug walked down the driveway to the mailbox. He withdrew the envelope from the box and returned to the house, stepping inside. The front curtains were drawn to keep out the afternoon sun, and there was a fan perched on the small table next to the hat rack. The swiveling head turned at a ninety-degree angle, creating an indoor breeze that cooled everything from the Franklin stove and the bookcase along the left wall to the couch where Billy lay watching The Flintstones.

“Turn that off,” Doug said. “Why are you wasting your day watching TV?”

“I’m not wasting it. It’s The Flintstones. Besides, it’s summer. What should I be doing? Reading?”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t read for fun.”

“Your mother and I do.”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”