“What? They don’t expect what?”

“They say her chances of survival are small. She gets weaker by the hour.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Tom startles me when he swears and slams his hand against the armrest of his chair. There is a rustling sound in the sky to the west, and a large shadow skims the treetops, then heads north, over our heads. It’s the largest bird I’ve ever seen.

“What was that?” I ask, awe in my voice.

“Some species of owl,” Tom says absently. “I’ve never gotten a good enough look to identify it.”

It disappears among the trees.

“I packed your things in a bag and put them in your car,” he says. “The clothes are clean. With a few parting gifts for you and Pearl.” His voice catches when he says your name. “I wish you would have called me to come and get you. You didn’t have to get a cab.”

I wave him off, not sure what to say. The air shifts, and a wave of leaves, loosened earlier that day by the storm, falls from the trees.

“I never could understand what she saw in you,” Tom says, chuckling to himself.

I feel a coldness drop into my veins because I know he’s talking about Mary. I can’t tell what amuses him more—what she saw in me, or his inability to see what she saw.

“That first night, at the Halloween party, she was the one I had my eye on.” His speaks reluctantly, as if walking out slowly on the ice, testing the thickness.

I am surprised at this. I never had any idea Tom had feelings for Mary. I always assumed he felt the same brotherly affection for her that I felt for Shirley. But the tone of his voice doesn’t invite a reply, and I find myself growing rigid, bracing myself for a punch.

“But of course, Shirley was special too. And after that night in the field, after Shirley and I kissed, and after we came out of the field and found Mary clinging to you, I knew things were set. You and Mary. Me and Shirley. Sometimes these things can’t be changed, you know? I knew it from that moment. The longer things went, the more solid the arrangement. Like setting concrete. One moment it’s a liquid, and before you know it, firm.”

The air grows cold. I rub my arms, wishing I had worn a jacket. To be honest, all I want to do is leave—get out of this damp autumn air, avoid hearing whatever it is that Tom is going to tell me. But I can’t do it. I can’t leave. I’m too curious, and his voice is too commanding. I’m in it until the end.

“I don’t know what happened to me after John was born,” Tom says, his voice hollow and far away. “It was hard when you guys got married. I mean, you were so young. What were you thinking? But when John came along, everything I had felt for Mary when I first met her was resurrected out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Whenever I saw you holding John, a surge of jealousy coursed through me like electricity.”