LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Yes,” he said. “She oared about ten feet away and saw his raft capsize. She tried to save him, but the undercurrent was too powerful.”

      Zoey couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen and sidestepped farther into the hall. “We need to hit the road, Mitch. The Valium has me loopy. I have to lie down.”

      “Yep, let’s go,” Mitch said and shook Dr. Selden’s hand. “Thank you for everything.”

      Dr. Selden smiled with special interest in Zoey. “I’ll see you in a month at the clinic for your follow-up. It’s all there in the bag with your prescriptions.”

      “Oh, goody.” Zoey elbowed Mitch. “More needles and egotistical staff.”

      Mitch shook his head.

      “Stay as long as you like,” Zoey said to her courteous ex, “but I’m getting the hell out of here.” She began walking backward to watch and further annoy Mitch. “See the cloud around my feet? That’s smoke.”

      Mitch shrugged apologetically at Dr. Selden and headed with Zoey to the elevator. “Rude, that’s what you are, plain and simple. You need to take a refresher course in etiquette.”

      “Lighten up, Mitch. You think I’m the first bitchy patient he’s dealt with?”

      Mitch shook his head. “You’re out of control.”

      The door dinged open. She and Mitch stepped into the cubicle.

      Two women descended with them to the lobby, a twentysomething picture-perfect black woman whose divine proportions could have earned her time in Zoey’s studio and a sickly elderly woman with hopeless eyes and wispy spiderweb hair. They gabbed as if they were alone.

      “She saw my turn signal and darted in front of me,” the flawless woman said. “She stole my parking spot and, let me tell you, if I didn’t have my nephew in the car, I would have got in her face. I would have demanded she find some other place to park her clunker.”

      The elderly lady snickered, showing a tiny devil’s streak. “You should have. Everyone does whatever it is they want to do with no regard for their fellow man or nature or anything. People are impolite and narcissistic.”

      Mitch eyed Zoey as if labeling her with that description.

      Zoey scratched her earlobe with her middle finger.

      The old woman continued, “Last time I saw someone parked in the handicapped zone without a handicap sticker, I dumped my apple juice on their windshield.”

      “You did not.”

      “I sure did, and I’d do it again. My ankles hurt so bad that day I could have cried, and because of an illegally parked Volvo, I had to walk a quarter of a mile. Almost didn’t make it.”

      “I don’t blame you.”

      Zoey’s pill helped her escape pointless chatter and relax somewhere semioblivious.

      And then the one voice she couldn’t tune out said, “I had the landline at the house connected.”

      “Why?”

      “You never charge your cellphone. Now you don’t have to worry about it.”

      “No, now you don’t have to worry.”

      “And I stocked the house with groceries and some cough syrup in case your throat hurts. Dr. Selden said he wasn’t sure if the scratchiness healed or went into remission.”

      “Thanks,” she said.

      “Picked up a box of cereal too. Corn flakes, right?”

      Zoey nodded. The last breakfast she and Milo had together. Mitch was clueless.

      Her and Milo’s last morning together. Milo told jokes. Something about a frayed knot made him laugh so heartily, milk dribbled from his nose. Zoey reached for her camera. Milo grasped the state of his vulnerability and laughed harder, an infectious giggle she couldn’t deflect.

      No pill, no liquor, no environment stopped the wrenching pain in her chest. Her stomach gurgled, and her mind chanted one of many self-loathing beliefs: wasting space, nothing more to offer. Why bother?

      The elevator doors opened, and she rushed into a corridor made sullen by dark wooden panels and portraits of scouring old men. Buttery sunlight splashed through giant windows and spotlighted the exit. She walked next to Mitch, who most likely wanted to get her home and tuck her in—keep her safe. His concern upset her because he was destined to be disappointed. She erased his expectations from her psyche. She had a plan. Maybe not tonight, or tomorrow night, but some night soon she’d sit naked in the wild, count stars and get drunk enough to eat a bottle of sedatives. She didn’t belong in Colorado. She belonged with her son.

       Chapter 4

      Mitch had rented a Ford SUV. Zoey sat in the passenger’s seat, shoeless, with her feet propped on the dashboard. She gazed out the window. In Chicago nature whispered; in Colorado it screamed, operatic and mesmerizing. She examined the anatomy of Telluride, the San Juan Mountains ribcages to the vital heart, the town pumping revenue throughout.

      “Coldstone,” Mitch said as they drove a modest concrete bridge over water. “Same river that runs behind your house.”

      “A vein.”

      “What?”

      “Nothing.” Zoey scratched off a dot of dried ketchup from the door panel. She’d rather scrape leftovers from previous passengers than risk slipping into a meaningful conversation with her ex. She didn’t want to hurt him.

      “Fifteen miles of boulder strewn adventure.”

      “River jargon?”

      “Whitewater rafting,” he said. “I’m going to be vacationing here, remember? I’m looking for things to do.”

      “Didn’t you hear Dr. Selden? It’s not safe. A child drowned recently.”

      “I know, a teenage boy. There’ve probably been countless deaths in that vein. We can’t shut down. Life has to go on for the living.”

      “You get an F for subtlety.”

      “It wasn’t a dig, Zoey.” Mitch stared out the windshield, concentrating on something personal. From nowhere he said, “How’s it feel to be rich?”

      “I couldn’t tell you. I have yet to partake in frivolous spending.” Thinking about the money twisted her stomach. Everything had happened so fast. Milo’s death, the call about an uncle she’d never met hanging himself, the transfer of funds—the timing—like some kind of cash compensation for the loss of her son. A sick joke.

      “How much did you inherit, exactly?”

      “You were there. You know how much.”

      “I want to hear you say it.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you’ve acted as if you’ve inherited a bag of rusted pots and pans.”

      “Six million.”

      “Wow.”

      “Money wasn’t a problem before Amos. I did fine. We did fine.”

      “We also budgeted and saved. If you invest wisely, you’ll never have to worry about bills again. That’s huge. Most people would cut off a toe for that luxury.”

      “Am I supposed to feel guilty?”

      “No, but you will and you shouldn’t. It’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to put a book of images together. A coffee table hardback. Now you can.” The book idea had died with her son. That person, the woman with dreams and hopes, was a sensitive topic. She intentionally switched subjects. “Do you need money? Is that what this is about?”

      “No,

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