She keeps the reins taut but long, and lets Ariel pick her footing up the rows, the sun burning at their backs, warm through Sylvia’s barn jacket. The boulders pass on either side of her, sharp-edged, erect, firmly set into the shallow, gritty loam, not at a constant distance but aligned by some design known only to the beings who placed them. Telling her what to do, how to live—she will unpeel the shadow Ted has cast over her life. Always pontificating, plotting her every move by Tarot or the shifting of the planets, but piddling his own life away, sneaking out mornings to stare at a bobbing fish float. Sneaking out to the crowded bed of an adulteress, thinking he could mask the stench of her with lies and craven silences. Looking for a way out, looking for escape. He would never have the guts to do what she’s doing.