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That night he calls his ex, a thing he does from time to time.

He even went down to Wichita for her birthday in April, brought her a scarf—blue, to match her eyes—and stayed for cake and ice cream with her new guy.

He and Margie get along a lot better since they split.

Sometimes Danny thinks that’s a shame.

Sometimes he thinks it’s just the way it should be.

They talk a little bit, this and that, people they know, her mother’s glaucoma and how Danny’s brother is doing at his job (fabulous), and then he asks if they ever drove north, maybe over into Nebraska, maybe to Franklin or Beaver City.

Didn’t they have lunch one time in Beaver City?

She laughs—not quite her old mean laugh, the one that used to drive him crazy, but close.

“I never would have gone to Nebraska with you, Danno.

Ain’t Kansas borin enough?”

“You’re sure?”

“Posi-lute,” Margie says, then tells him she thinks Hal—her new guy—is going to pop the question pretty soon.

Would he come to the wedding?

Danny says he would.

She asks if he’s taking care of himself, meaning is he still off the booze.

Danny says he is, tells her to look both ways before crossing the street (an old joke between them), and hangs up.

Never would have gone to Nebraska with you, Danno, she said.

Danny has been to Lincoln a couple of times and Omaha once, but those towns are east of Wilder, and Gunnel is dead north.

Yet he must have been there and just forgot it.

Maybe back in his drinking days? Except he never drove when he was out-and-out shitfaced, afraid of losing his license or maybe hurting somebody.

I was there.

Must have been, back when that county road was still tarvy instead of packed dirt.

He stays up later than usual and tosses around quite a bit before finally dropping off, afraid the dream will come back.

It doesn’t, but the next morning it’s as clear as ever: deserted gas station, half-moon, stray dog, hand, charm bracelet.