“You were both pretty young,” he says, staring off into the woods, the beer bottle dangling between his spread knees.
“And what’s your story, Tom? Why aren’t you divorced? Isn’t that the way it works these days?”
He doesn’t look at me. There is actually quite a pause, and I don’t think he’s even heard me. Perhaps it’s better this way. I’m not interested in Tom’s marital advice, and certainly not in his marital life. So I follow his gaze back toward the woods, drink steadily and stare. There’s movement every so often, a swinging branch, rustling leaves. I think about the Dahl boy, but the only image that comes to mind is one of gaping wounds and a small body doused in blood.
I imagine the bear bursting through the brush and lunging into my yard.
“I don’t know,” he says suddenly.
“Sorry
