Hands in his back pockets, vaulting his chest. He might try to hit me. He’s picturing it, at least.

–Why would she lie?

–I can’t answer for your mother.

Shifting his weight like the floor is hot. Looking over my head, teeth grating.

–I’ve been in town a few days, you know. Asking around about you, and … Why didn’t you say you had company?

He is looking behind me, where the garden holds the evening’s fading light.

–You should go.

–He …

Because of course, even at this distance, he can see the resemblance between them. Not so changed, then. Not on the outside. I watch his face, his temples crowding. Turning to creases the soft skin between his eyes.

–Come back another time.

–Who is he?

Headed for the back door, his face open as a child’s. The sadness he must’ve felt as a boy in want of a father, all flooding back now and making bright pools of his eyes.

–Don’t. Don’t go outside.

Olivia sent me their son, to let me know he lied to me.

Thinking she’d change my mind.

Probably she’s thought the two of us have been living together all these years, taking our supper at the same time every evening, and couldn’t help herself. Probably scrawled a map to the house right as she died.

But I should be thankful. Must be this boy who’s pulled him up. The closeness of this poor, ignorant boy.

And, besides.

Olivia forgot: I’m no Cure.

There’s little I can’t abide.

His feet are heavy in his boots as he walks past me.

The rain is coming. I know already the patterned indentations it’ll leave on the lawn.

He will be much changed, I know, after all these years in The Ground.

In the garden, his son’s voice cracking:

–Who are you?

In the garden, his legs all tremble.

–What’s your name?

Much changed.

The door swinging shut. Wind coming in. Lamp set to squeak.

You’ll get hurt, I might say. I might say, Run home and stay there.

Who knows what he’s been stewing in.

Who knows what I’ve made.

–I said what’s your name?

All that matters: he’ll be more like me.

–Tell me—

Father said over and over it wouldn’t work.

Said over and over it wouldn’t sit right.

He thought he’d plant regret in me and I’d try to bring him up myself, maim or kill him with him half out The Ground.

But I’ve only grown more certain.

Have only grown more sure.

Nothing is too much for the scratch of hair on his chest and the gleam of his cheeks when he turns his face toward flat, hard sunshine.

No matter if he’s strange. No matter if he’s been birthed with a flicker he hadn’t before. No matter if he’s cruel or governed by a hungry fever. No matter, because I’ll no longer be sat here with my heart unseeded and my insides crackling dry.

So long, too long, in the desert.