When the Wall fell, Danny called his friend, but he was drunk, laughing and crying, and singing a bawdy bar song in German.

She worked nights, her quiet measured pace and steady presence a comfort to patients and reassuring to the staff. “I want that nurse in white,” some querulous old woman would demand, and they would send for Mary, who wore white like it was the very distillation of the sun—pure and incandescent.

And she would tuck and straighten, whisper and soothe, ‘til all was quiet on her floor.

On pretty days, runners pass in and out of the grounds, mindful of where they are, but grateful for the heavy shade of cypress, willow, and live oak. Sometimes they see a flutter of bright color—flowers and a flag—so they stop to read, and try to remember, ” … now who was Anson Jones?”

A photographer from the newspaper took his picture, and the local bank sent the clipping to him, laminated and framed. Charlie Ben was eleven and it was the best day of his life, and for a long long time, nothing else could beat it.

Worse, she liked to read his magazines too. Voracious, that’s what she was. If she weren’t so gorgeous, so smart, and so much fun, he’d cancel all his subscriptions.

“Oh No! That’s just wrong. No.”

“Ok. Then I’ll do it.”

“No you won’t. You’ll make hash of it. You won’t figure out the times, won’t start and stop in the right places. You’ll run it off the end.”

“Then you’ll do it for me?”

“No! That’s retrograde technology. Not only do you not want an iPod, now you want me to make you a cassette?”

“OK. You can buy me a new car. Mustang. Red. Convertible.”

At seven, he carries his flag outside and raises it smartly to the top of the pole. Then he looks for his newspaper, hoping the paperboy’s arm has improved. He pauses on the doorstep and smiles, watching the flag gallantly streaming, because at Mr. Miller’s house, every day is Flag Day.

If it didn’t rain soon, he’d have to sell off the rest of the herd, and he didn’t know how to tell his old man. The hay grazer was dying in the fields. His prayer now was just for decent pasture, so they could save what bales were left for the coming winter.

Dear God, please let it rain.

Buck’s father joined him on the porch. “Time to sell ‘em Son.” Buck stared at his father. “Come on Buck. Do you think this is the first time that it never rained?”

“Don’t you want to look upstairs, or in the kitchen?” she asked, because the house had been on the market a long time.

He began painting, furiously—sharp clean sails digging into the wind, dividing the pellucid sky from the water. And late into the night, he painted the great white splashes of yellow-billed pelicans who fished in the spotlight off his pier, gliding in and out of the dark like dancers on a stage.

Her husband wouldn’t be sober enough to find her note, much less understand it, until morning. She paper-clipped the note to her car title, endorsed over to him. The car was the only thing that was hers, and the only way to convince him that she was serious.

Marcy always waved at the bus driver, so she hoped if she waved big and pointed to her suitcase, that he’d stop on the side of the road to pick her up, and he did. Elk City was the next station, where she’d buy her ticket. In twenty-fours hours I’ll be safe, she thought, and she was.