coffee odors, the sharp dust, straw, and manure from outside. There was a littered desk, a thirdhand couch, a large window onto the adjoining stall, through which a vet or groom could keep an eye on whatever mare most needed to be watched. Knox sat at the desk, turned on the computer, and logged into her e-mail account, organizing a few battered Styrofoam cups into a stack as she waited for the connection to fire.
Three new messages flashed up: one from Marlene, one from herself (a file of unfinished reports she’d sent from the center to the farm address earlier that day), and one from Ned. Knox cleared her throat. She would start in on the reports and ignore everything else for now. She clicked on her file, opened the letter she’d begun to compose to Brad Toffey’s parents. She had decided on addressing the report to “Mr. and Mrs. Toffey,” though she had only ever met Brad’s mother, Dorothea, and had heard from Marlene that she and her husband were having problems—Dorothea herself had apparently called Mr. Toffey a honking bastard when Marlene had asked if he should be included on Brad’s school pickup form. “There’s good Toffeys and bad Toffeys,” Marlene had said. “I know just about everyone in that clan.” Marlene had tried to tell Dorothea to let the center know if there were family issues it needed to be aware of. But unless Brad’s behavior at the center changed drastically, bad Toffeys weren’t really anyone’s business.
She spent the better part of the next hour explaining to the Toffeys, plural, how their son had progressed during his summer school term. He had begun composing stories of his own (the protagonists were always named Brad and possessed of superhuman powers), whereas back in May he had been nervous even to dictate to her, fearful he would sound stupid. She emphasized everything she could think to about Brad’s accomplishments, knowing that Mrs. Toffey had a hard time, that she tended to wrap her fingers around Brad’s pale, hairless forearm if he got recalcitrant in the carpool line, drag him toward the passenger door, tell him not to “be so damned hyper.” Knox tried to ease Brad out of that grip with her praise and made a mental note to put his rough drawing—of a Laker dunking a basketball, “BT” emblazoned on his uniform—on the front cover of the mimeographed journal her class would publish at the end of the summer.
She moved on to another report, finished that and two more before she thought to open Marlene’s e-mail, take a tiny break before getting to the final two reports she had to finish. She swiveled round once while the message opened, dizzying herself with a small rush of speed and air and messy scenery before stilling the chair and herself with her feet, read:
You know, I thought about it, and you are ugly. Can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Love, Mar
Knox laughed out loud. From the other side of the barn, the mare snorted in response.
“Hey,” came a voice behind her. Knox turned in the chair and saw Ned standing in the doorway.
“Oh—”
“What’s so funny?” Ned let the screen door catch on its loose spring and bounce against his back, where it rested. His glasses were smudged and glinted pink in the sunset light from the window when he cocked his head.
She smiled. “Nothing. Marlene’s a shit. You surprised me.”
“Didn’t mean to.”
Knox stretched her arms up and tilted her head back. She twisted her hands at the wrists, like a ballerina, a sorceress, and took a deep breath. Ned stayed where he was in the doorway. Knox held the breath, stretched farther, then exhaled, mildly taken aback that Ned wasn’t reading her movements as an invitation to move closer. She laced her fingers together and lowered them to her lap.
“Well hi,” she said. “Charlotte thinks she’s having the babies tomorrow.”
“I was just up at your parents’. They got a call from Bruce, said she’s going to have the surgery tonight.”
“What?”
“Yeah. You should go up to the house.”
Knox blinked. “But I just talked to her,” she said. “It’s supposed to be tomorrow.”
Ned rubbed at his chin with the back of his hand. “Well, I guess they were able to schedule it earlier. I think they want to get ’em out. You should go on up.”
Knox gripped the arms of the swivel chair as if to push herself out of it, then paused. There was something so still in Ned’s face,