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. Sally tried not to scoff. She knew the women were fixing up the trailer. He did almost nothing around the place anymore. Huddled in the attic and worked on his manifesto.

“Hey, hi, how’s it going? So nice to meet you,” Maverick said, his words tumbling out in a nervous rush. He pushed some greasy hair off his sweaty forehead and grinned. Sally saw a flash of gray teeth and red gums. Cassandra was wearing a ball cap and sunglasses even though it was night and she was indoors. Sally watched the girl scratch her forearm with long, repetitive, mindless strokes of ragged fingernails. They were both scrawny. Just the type to appeal to Darius. Sally noted that the boy did not have a Montreal accent. She suspected the girl didn’t, either. Undoubtedly the first lie of many they had told Darius. Or would tell him.

What does it matter? They’ll be gone soon enough,
she thought as she left the room.

But they didn’t leave. In fact, they participated more enthusiastically than any other teens had before them. They sat, rapt, at the loving correction sessions, not yet allowed to participate but eagerly watching, waiting for their turn. Sally saw Maverick out on a chilly morning when the skies were dripping damp snowflakes, shirtless and sweating as he shoveled goat manure and turned it into the compost pile. Another day, while waiting for coffee to brew, Sally watched Cassandra methodically polish one glass after another, rubbing an old dish towel over and over nonexistent water spots. Sally took a step to retrieve a mug, positioned herself next to the girl, and inhaled deeply. An acrid, chemical smell hit her nostrils.

Of course,
she thought.
Yes, of course.

Later that night, when the house was dark and silent, Sally went to the window of her room. She had a view over the yard, past the garden, and directly to the trailer stationed at the end of a slushy path. Where the lights were on. From her perch of about fifty yards away, she watched two silhouettes move back and forth in the kitchen area. Steam of some sort was coming out the back window. She shook her head in disgust and tiptoed from her room to the foot of the stairs that led to the attic space. Light seeped out from under the door. She knocked lightly. She listened to footfalls coming down the stairs. Darius yanked the door open, his face full of annoyance that quickly gave way to confusion. He was wearing a T-shirt grayed with wear. Sally noticed he’d lost weight. But his frame still filled the small doorway, blocking her view.

“What?”

“I need to talk to you,” Sally said.

“That’s obvious,” Darius replied, his hand on the doorknob and his face drained of its habitual mask of forced cheer and solicitude he put on for everyone else at The Source. “Say what you need to say.”

“It’s about those two teenagers.”

“What now, Sally? What negativity do you bring to me this time? We finally have two young people who are fully participating, and you’re here to tell me what’s wrong with them.”

Sally glared at him. “Um, yeah, Darius. See, what’s negative about them, what’s wrong with them, is that they’re fucking meth heads.”

Darius crossed his arms. “Meth heads? Really, Sally? I think you watch far too much TV with your friends.”

“Maybe, Darius, you should watch a little more. All the signs are there.” She ticked them off her fingertips. “Talking too fast, sweating, weight loss, bad teeth—”

“You could be describing pretty much any teenager on the planet, Sally.”

“Dilated pupils, obsessive activities, twitching eyes, chemical smell,” she went on.

“And since when do you take such an interest in our charges, Sally?”

“Since I saw them trying to cook meth out in the trailer. Right now, in fact,” she sneered. “Since I realized they could get us arrested as accessories, or even better, burn this whole fucking place down with one little chemical explosion.”

Darius stared at her for a few moments, narrowed his eyes, pushed past her, and hurried down the hall and the stairs to the kitchen. She glanced up toward his attic lair and felt the temptation to go snoop. But there were more pressing concerns. She returned to her bedroom and watched as Darius’s silhouette showed up in the trailer. His posture was pitched aggressively forward, and his hands waved in the air. Half an hour later, he was knocking at her door.

“That will be the end of that,” he told her.

“Sure, it will,” Sally said. “That’s all any meth addict needs: a good, stern talking-to. That’ll set them on the path to righteousness, pronto.” She patted his chest, felt the ribs that were sheltered only by a thin layer of flesh and skin. He did not shrink from her touch. A memory of one of their hurried moments of sex flashed by, distant heat lightning. “Good for you, Darius,” she continued. “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll keep a close eye on them and that trailer myself. And don’t think for a moment that I won’t call the cops the minute I see any evidence of them cooking meth on my property.”

Darius flinched at her expression of ownership.

“Nothing like a little time in juvie to dry them right out,” she said.

Miranda wanted Dix to come back to The Source. She said Darius apologized for not being there. She said there was a new teenager, Maverick, who really wanted to meet him, to learn from him. Dix resisted as gently as he could.

“Sweetie, I spend my days fixing people’s houses. There’s a long list of things to do here. It’s hard for me to get excited about working out there, too.”

“Right. Of course,” she said.

“Feel free to bring the boy over sometime. I could work with him on something here.”

“Great idea! I’ll do that.”

Dix felt safe making the offer because he knew she’d never bring the kid over. Or anyone else, for that matter. She was less and less inclined to mix her Dix and Darius worlds. Instead, she followed him around on a few jobs. She peppered him with questions. In the evenings, over dinner, she interrogated him about how to jack up a barn, dry out a basement, trim goat hooves, build a sleeping platform, secure a chicken house, protect a heater, build a greenhouse with old windows. He gave her as much information as he could, but when he pressed her afterward about how this or that project had gone, she reluctantly admitted to dead chickens, melted sleeping bags, bloody goat feet. But even these sad tales she justified as important and necessary, if difficult, learning experiences.

Even more maddening to Dix, she cadged his tools. Which were both valuable and necessary for his work. When he asked if she’d borrowed his saw or backup screw gun, she would shake her head evasively, or bring back a different tool, or return his with dulled, broken, or missing parts. She also came home with bruised knuckles, ripped fingernails, and once a black eye from an angry goat. But she was unabashed, showing off her wounds with pride, as if they were evidence of a job well done, not stupid and clumsy errors. Dix had a deep sense of foreboding. It was only a matter of time, he knew, before she came home with something worse than a scrape.

It happened just before Thanksgiving. A holiday Miranda had recently informed him she would not be observing because she didn’t think they should celebrate the exploitation of the original Americans by a conquering force. The house was empty when Dix arrived at the end of a long day of work. Many of his customers would be celebrating the coming holiday with large family gatherings at their mountain homes, and he had been busy laying in firewood, chasing away mice, and clearing driveways. He made himself a sandwich with leftover meatloaf and cracked a beer. The house was solemn and quiet. He checked the clock on the wall. Seven thirty. She had regularly missed dinners with him lately, but this was still later than usual for her. No point in checking his messages. Again. Her cell phone didn’t work up there. Wasn’t allowed anyway. She rarely took it with her anymore. When he’d asked her to call him from their house phone if she was going to be late, she’d said that phone was only for emergencies.

Dix made himself another sandwich, as much to fill time as his belly. The clock ticked past eight. He washed his plate, wrapped the leftovers, put away the bread, ketchup, and mayonnaise. As he surveyed the clean and empty kitchen, he was reminded of his years of bachelorhood. He hadn’t felt lonely back then, had loved his solitude. Why did he feel so lonely now? He found himself wishing he had a dog, something, anything to greet him when he came home, to bring life into the house. He considered opening another beer but set the kettle on the stove instead. He stood at the window and stared into the dark outside, trying to ignore the dark inside. The kettle boiled away. He turned it off without making tea. Finally, a set of headlights made their slow way up the drive. It was almost nine. He refilled the kettle and turned on the heat beneath it. He turned on the outside lights and stood in the doorway, waiting for her. He watched as she got out of the car and came toward him slowly, tentatively, a dog who had turned over the trash. She did not look up or meet his eyes. He blocked the door.

“Are you going to let me in?”

He turned his body and she slid past him. She smelled like a campfire. He shut the door on the cold outside. She was in the mudroom, pushing her boots off her feet and shouldering off her coat. He reached over to help. She coughed—a harsh, grating sound of dry sticks rubbing together.

“What happened, Miranda?”

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Got caught up in some stuff out there.”

She ducked her head away from him, pulled free of her coat, and went into the kitchen where the teakettle was screaming. Dix followed her. She turned off the heat and grabbed two mugs from the shelf. Dix took her chin in his hand and turned her face to the light. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were singed. So was a line of hair along her forehead. The shoulder of her shirt was torn and smudged with black.

“Miranda? What happened?”

Dix tried to keep the alarm from his voice. Miranda pulled her head out of his hand and filled the mugs. He tried to recall if there had been sirens. It had been a quiet night.

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” she said quietly.

“It was the heater, wasn’t it?” Dix said.

“It wasn’t the damn heater, Dix,” Miranda hissed, dunking teabags into the cups, splashing water over the sides. “Sorry, Dix, but you weren’t right about that. For once, you weren’t right. That fucking heater is broken. It doesn’t even work anymore. We can’t even light it at all. So stop with the heater shit.”

Dix was shocked into silence. Miranda rarely swore. She dropped her face into her hands. He put his arm over her shoulder and guided her into the living room. She sat on the sofa. He put a blanket over her knees and went back for the mugs. He set hers on the table, held his in his palms, and waited for her. She didn’t pick up her cup.

“It was a kitchen fire,” she finally said, her voice not just exhausted but defeated. “They were in the trailer. It happened in the trailer. It was an . . . experiment. Maverick and Cassandra. Those teenagers I told you about.”

An experiment. In his mind, Dix filled in what Miranda didn’t, wouldn’t say. Maverick. The kid who supposedly was interested in carpentry. Clearly not interested in building chicken coops, Dix thought.

“Miranda . . .” He could not keep the tone of rebuke from his voice.

“Don’t start, Dix,” she snapped at him. “I know what you’re thinking. Drugs. Right. Of course. No surprise there. These are messed-up kids. That’s why I asked for your help. They do drugs. They tried to cook meth. They probably learned how from their parents. I know how you feel. You’re going to tell me this is a reason for me to stop going out there. But it’s not. It’s just the opposite. This shows how much these kids need us. You probably think we should kick these kids out. That’s what everyone else has done. Even you wouldn’t come back to help. They have no one. That’s why they need us. Now more than ever.”

Dix leaned back, away from Miranda and her onslaught of words. Away from her stunning rebukes. He heard Darius in her statements. He’d never met him, but Dix imagined him talking, as if in a scene from a movie he’d once seen—this charismatic, handsome man explaining why what was bad was actually good, what was wrong was actually right, and why they were in a unique position to see what no one else could. He must make the people around him feel unique and special, a tribe blessed with the burden of a special vision and purpose. Dix took a deep breath, composed himself, leaned forward, and touched Miranda’s knees. She moved her legs. He did not pull away.

“I know how committed you are to these kids,” Dix said, keeping his voice steady and quiet. “To the community. To trying to do the right thing, the good thing. I know you want what’s best for them.”

“But what, Dix? What’s next? Go ahead, tell me how wrong I am. That’s what you want to do, don’t you? That’s what you’re going to do. You, who have all the answers. You, who always do everything right.”

Dix pulled back again. He sat upright. Miranda had never tried to wound him before. This was something new. He told himself that she was just upset. That she didn’t know what she was saying.

“Sweetheart. No. That’s not it at all. Miranda.”