The light had turned a pale, dusty blue over the sixty acres of pasture.
I walked out to the top step, where the air was beginning to lose its daytime weight and a small, cool draft was coming off the creek. The road was completely empty, a gray line of gravel disappearing into the oak trees.
Carlos had never forgotten to tell me about his visits before this summer.
I looked down at the blue ceramic pot by the step, its scratched side facing the porch.
The brass key was still under there, right where it had been for twenty years.
A car passed in the distance on the state highway, its headlights sweeping across the mailbox, but it did not turn into our drive.
I went back inside and set the phone on the dry kitchen counter.
The kitchen was completely dark now except for the green light of the microwave clock.
I did not turn on the lamp.
From the counter, the small device gave a single, quiet chime.
I did not sleep well after that. By nine the next morning, the dry Texas dust was already rising from the road as a logging truck rumbled past the front gate.
Juan was standing by the tailgate of his old green pickup in the driveway, lifting the heavy paper feed sacks onto his shoulder. His gravelly voice was the only familiar thing left in the morning silence.
I walked down the gravel path, my fingers tracing the cold metal of my silver wedding band. I stopped near the bumper of his truck, watching him hoist a fifty-pound sack of sweet feed with a slow, practiced grunt.
“Juan,” I said, waiting until he set the sack down in the bed before I spoke again. “Did I sound unreasonable when I talked to Carlos last night?”
Juan stopped and pulled a faded blue bandana from his back pocket, wiping his calloused hands with slow, deliberate pressure. He did not look up at me right away.
“Carlos talks fast,” Juan said. “He always has.”
