There’s a multitude of Ifs that I let myself think about. Some moments you long for, to live inside them, to never leave. Others you regret. You wish for a second chance. I make sure to remember them all. It’s a fine romance, this slow dance with fate. A sweet torture. I don’t forget. I never will.

But then there are other choices.

Some Ifs, they want their pound of flesh. They’re hard to dance with. You drag them around with you. You carry them on your back.

I think about if Jack hadn’t gone to that prison.

Some Ifs,

they break your knees.

Bardem crossed Henry’s Fork and took Red Road north into the desert. Fresh snow covered the blacktop and stood in razorlike skifts atop wires strung between burnt-looking fence posts. When he got to Big Grassy Ridge, the sun was almost down. A cold blue dusk with shadows of the north hills falling across the dunes. Silent and barren. He slowed and pulled onto the shoulder and left the motor running. He watched the road.

In a minute or so, a cruiser came into view. On its sides were the words IDAHO DIVISION OF PRISONS. Bardem reached into the pocket of his shirt and took out a Ziploc bag of dried venison. He withdrew a piece from the bag and sat eating.

The cruiser rolled up alongside the Land Rover and parked. The correctional officer stepped out. He wore a green coat and a Smokey Bear belt buckle. Bardem shut down the Land Rover’s engine and got out and walked around the vehicle to the officer. He ate a bite of venison. “Well?”

“It was him,” the officer said.

“And?”

“He waltzed in about two o’clock. Asked to see Dahl.”

“And what happened?”

“I put them in a room together. Listened to their conversation.”

“I guess you want me to ask what you heard.”

Bardem stood there casually, chewing. The officer looked away. The wind smelled of snow and had a snap that drew water to his eyes. He looked back. Bardem watched him.

“Do you have the money?” the officer asked.

“I don’t know. Do you have something worth paying for?”

The officer shifted his weight. “I told you last week. Dahl didn’t get parole.”

“Dahl didn’t get parole. And now you want paid for this?”

The officer swallowed. “I don’t want a part of no trouble.”

“Part of no trouble.”

“Right.”

“But you already are.”

“What?”

“You already are part of some trouble. You knew what this was when you agreed to it. You can’t know something inside yourself and then pretend you didn’t. That’s not the way things work.”