He saved his backpack for last. He knew what was in there. He unzipped the pack and pulled out its contents: A folder with homework. His student ID card, some pencils, a syllabus. And Ava’s calculus book. He laid the book on the table. The hot-air balloon on the cover. Her name on the inside. He took the folder and other items and threw them in the trash. He looked at her book again. Picked it up and felt the weight in his hands. Then he put her book in the backpack. He loaded the duffel and the backpack in the Caprice and drove out onto the road.

IX

There are no Starbucks here. No espressos. No cappuccinos or caramel macchiatos. In this place if we want coffee, we brew the pot with our own hands. We pour the cup. We drink it black.

If we have a problem, we fix it.

Question: If you had one chance to save everything that mattered to you, would you grab hold of it? Or would you let it get away?

When Jack pulled into the prison work camp, it was about two o’clock. He drove slowly along the row of buildings to a spot near the visitors’ entrance and parked and shut off the engine. He sat and watched the snow land on the windshield. The cold and ashen sky. Finally he went in.

A correctional officer sat at the front desk, drinking coffee and talking on the phone. He kept talking and looking Jack over until he hung up. “You need something, chief?”

“I need to see an inmate.”

“Who?”

“Leland Dahl.”

The officer picked up his mug off the counter, sipped, and put it down again. He leaned back in his swivel chair. There was a radio on somewhere.

“Well. He ain’t exactly one for visitors.”

“He’ll see me.”

“He expectin’ you?”

“No.”

The officer took another sip. “You ain’t on the preapproved list.”

“I need to see him.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

The officer studied him. He tilted his head a little, as though he’d had a thought about Jack. He slid a clipboard across the desk. “You gotta fill out this application, and I gotta see ID.”

When Jack finished the application, he handed it over along with his driver’s license. The officer inspected the application and gave a cursory glance at the ID.

“Jack Dahl. You family?”

“Yessir.”

“And you’re eighteen?”

“Yes.”

“If you ain’t eighteen, you gotta have an adult to supervise.”

“Good thing I’m eighteen then, huh?”

“You visited before?”

“Nope.”

“Well.” He handed back Jack’s license. “I gotta see if he wants to see you. Why don’t you sit a minute.”

Jack nodded and sat on a sofa opposite the desk. On the end table were a water dispenser and little cups for drinking. He watched the officer swivel around and pick up the phone and talk into it.