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So Marjorie at least knows Alex, who he is, that he exists. She’s probably been googling Larry since the internet was born, like scorned lovers everywhere. Simone can clearly remember late nights going down that rabbit hole, reading Kwame’s pieces from his first job at Time Out Chicago like there was something to glean or hold on to from poring over his reviews of Escape Rooms.

“Yeah, I am.” Simone almost holds up her wedding ring as proof. She’s used to this skepticism. At her first back-to-school night last September for Langston’s first-grade class, Simone had cheerfully introduced herself to this woman, McKenna, who had grown up with Alex and who looked very, very confused upon meeting her. “You’re Langston’s mom? You’re with Alex?” It took McKenna several long seconds to process this, and she made no effort to hide that it was a struggle. “Hmmm, I wondered about the name when I saw it on the class roster. Langston. I thought that was an odd choice for Alex.”

“Okay, so that answers one of my questions…” Marjorie says.

Simone decides to just lay it all out there. “I found your letters, the ones you wrote to Larry years ago, and—”

Marjorie interrupts her. “He kept ’em?”

“Yes and—”

Marjorie interrupts again, the touched look on her face quickly dissolving into outrage. “And you read ’em?”

Simone looks over at Taylor as if her friend can save her. Taylor’s got nothing to offer but wide eyes and a shrug to acknowledge this is not going well.

“No, no… just a snippet before realizing what they were—enough to figure out that there was a… connection between you… And to know your address.”

“You took a real chance coming all this way, that’d I’d even still be here.”

“I guess so… this is your family farm, right? Have you ever left?”

“I moved to Green Bay for a spell when I got married. Came back here when my husband split and my dad finally kicked it, which conveniently happened in the same month. Never thought I’d call this place home again, but I didn’t exactly have anything to fall back on after Jack left me. Bastard ran through all our savings at Potawatomi, and I didn’t realize it until it was too late. Can’t trust ’em. Starting with Larry. I never could learn a single lesson until it was too late.”

“So you two were… involved?”

“Involved?” Marjorie cries out the word. “Yeah, you could say that.” The incensed scoff that erupts from her seems to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs.

“And what happened?”

“You got some nerve showing up at my doorstep asking me about my love life. I don’t see how this is any of your business.”

“Well, I just wondered—”

“Omigod, are those goats?” Taylor squeals out of nowhere, interrupting Simone, who is starting to wonder if she’ll ever be able to finish a sentence. Taylor’s looking out the smudged window at a furry creature ambling by a few dozen yards away. Simone can’t decide whether to be annoyed or grateful for the diversion.

“Yeah, I got sixteen of ’em,” Marjorie says, chest puffed with pride like she made these goats herself.

“Can we… can we see them?”

Marjorie and Simone train their eyes on Taylor. Now? they silently ask.

“I guess so…” Marjorie says reluctantly. “Gotta feed ’em, and you girls can help.”

“What are you doing?” Simone hisses at Taylor when Marjorie turns her attention to pulling on a pair of filthy muck boots a few feet away.

“We need to soften her up,” Taylor whispers back. “You brought me because of my charm, so trust me, we gotta be a little slick about this if she’s going to open up to two strangers who showed up at her door. Plus, come on, goats. How often do you get to pet a cute little goat?” Taylor sets off toward the door, like their mission today was visiting a petting zoo.

Outside, the wind drags along the tin roof of the house like a mallet across a xylophone, creating an almost melodic howl. They follow Marjorie out to the broken-down barn. The walk is slow going, the ground uneven and soft from the remnants of old snow. A rusted sign nailed to the gate reads OAKWOOD ACRES in peeling white letters. Simone wonders how long it’s been since they’ve actually produced anything here.

Inside the barn, the light shifts. It’s dim and thick, filtered through holes and gaps in the rotted wood. The air carries the musty scent of hay and manure. A fat orange tabby cat darts between their legs and disappears into a dark corner. The goats, meanwhile, come rushing over in a tight huddle to greet them.

Their coats are a patchwork of mud and burrs, their eyes a strange, unreadable yellow. One presses its head against Taylor’s thigh, another nibbles at the zipper of Simone’s jacket. A third stands on a bale of hay, chewing on what looks like an old receipt.

“Don’t mind them,” Marjorie says. “They’re nosy.” She glares at Simone.

Marjorie starts introducing the goats one by one to the two women as if they were members of her mah-jongg group, offering up small details about each animal.

“This is Lucky. She likes Cheerios and belly rubs. If she thinks you have either, she’ll follow you for a week.”