It would be their bodies that knew, she thought, looking away into the darkness to search for the hands, breasts and thighs already dreaming of him. The patches of dampened hair. Sweat ran down her back, so she stripped her top off and wet it in the bucket before pulling it back on. She could hear the fire carrying the alkalies back against the ware, the flames licking out the sideports like bright horns.

At three she opened more vents, snapped on her welder's goggles and squinted through the spyholes, the flames lean at the rear of the kiln. She eased the damper down and watched them pulse yellow and white, fattening. She could hear the fire moan, hear the women's laughter bubbling against his body, her wet shirt steaming in the heat.

At four she took up the long-handled poker to stir the firebed, the draft thrown open so the ash and embers could ride the currents of gas and flame, settling more heavily on the ware. And there were the plans they'd made when they were younger, just kids-a family, a home. He shifted in his sleep.

At the five o'clock stoking she singed the hair off her right forearm, standing there watching the pieces shimmer on the top shelves, reflecting in the flamelight. What a fool she's been. Foolish in love. She rubbed the burned hair from her arm.

She turned the lanterns out at dawn, stacked in as much wood as the firebox would hold and opened the primary vents front and back, knowing that the pieces near the floor, where the oxygen was thinnest, would color purple and maroon. She was short of breath and gasped and watched him turn in his sleep, yawning, then blinking up at her.

"I can do this without you," she said.

She'd already seen cone six bending at the top back, and increasing the heat at a rate of three hundred degrees an hour will bend cone nine by noon. Tonight cone eleven, twenty-three hundred degrees. She could feel the heat rising inside her. And at midnight, just seventeen hours away, she will make the last stoke and seal up the firebox. Any hotter and the clay could flare and melt, running as though poured from the center of the earth, pooling on the floor of the kiln. That's when she'll sleep.

"What time is it?" He dug at his eyes.

She stepped to him, bending down to unbutton his jeans, working them loose from his waist. He arched his hips, wanting to help, and she knelt and took him in her mouth, but he tasted only of ash.

She gripped his hands, pulling him to his feet, and peeled her shorts down to the tops of her steel-toed boots, then fell back across the hammock and opened her legs, her knees winging out, guiding him into her. "The world tastes of ash," she said.

She shut her eyes.

Twenty-four.

HE DREAMED it was storming, the overgrown Russian olive at the corner of the house bending eastward in the wind, its topmost branches knocking against the eaves and gutter. He shifted in his half sleep, thinking he might as well get up, have breakfast and prune the tree back later in the day, and then Rodney was standing with his arm cocked against the truck's side mirror. McEban sat up in the seat, turning the key to put the window down, and Rodney reached a mug of coffee through. He was dressed in his bathrobe and hadn't yet combed his hair. it was storming, the overgrown Russian olive at the corner of the house bending eastward in the wind, its topmost branches knocking against the eaves and gutter. He shifted in his half sleep, thinking he might as well get up, have breakfast and prune the tree back later in the day, and then Rodney was standing with his arm cocked against the truck's side mirror. McEban sat up in the seat, turning the key to put the window down, and Rodney reached a mug of coffee through. He was dressed in his bathrobe and hadn't yet combed his hair.

"I figured black," he said.

"Black's fine."

McEban blew across the top and took a sip and set the cup up on the dash, where it steamed a section of the windshield. He arched his back.

"If you want to come in I can fix you something to eat."

"Coffee'll be enough. Is Kenneth up?"

"Not yet."

McEban opened the door, sitting sideways in the seat and reaching for his mug. It was just breaking dawn. "How'd he like being in jail?"

"They didn't put him in a cell or anything like that. But they took his fingerprints, just to make an impression, I guess, and then he sat in a room and drank a Coke with a woman officer until I got over there." Rodney looked back toward the house, leaning into the side of the truck, scuffing at the pavement with a slippered foot.

McEban stepped into the street. "This is good coffee."

"Were you out here long?"

"Since about three." He checked his watch. "It seemed like a waste to rent a motel room for a couple hours, and I wasn't sure I was going to get to sleep anyway."

"It was my fault," Rodney said. "I thought he was having a good time."

"That's the problem with good times. They never last like they should."

A car passed, the driver craning across the seat, glaring at them like they were plotting a crime.

"What time's he get up down here in the city?"

"About now. I didn't sleep real well last night either, and then when I looked out I saw your truck."

"What's your wife think about all this?"

"I told her about the boy before we ever got married."

McEban nodded, running his tongue around his mouth. He pulled his Copenhagen out, offering him a pinch.

"I quit."

"Good for you."

"She's always said he was welcome down here. She did from the get-go."

McEban tossed the can up on the dash and finished his coffee. He handed Rodney the empty cup and they stood staring at it as a train whistled to the west.

"We'll work something out when he gets a little older. How's that sound to you? Where he can come down for a visit if he wants. Or next summer you could all come up. We got plenty of room."

"I'm a chickenshit when it comes to saying no to Rita," Rodney said. "I wish I wasn't, but I am."

McEban sucked on the tobacco, turning his head to spit. "We all are," he said.

He looked up when they heard the door slam and Kenneth was running across the street toward them without checking for traffic. He rocked McEban back against the edge of the seat, leaning in hard.

Rodney waited for him to get done, then helped him out of his backpack and tossed it over the sidewall onto the truckbed.

"Did you say your good-byes inside?" McEban asked.

Kenneth nodded, turning to the house. Claire was standing at the living-room window. He waved and she waved back.

"I guess we're ready, then."

The boy stepped forward and hugged Rodney, then ran to the other side of the truck and got in.

McEban extended his hand. "As far as Rita goes," he said, "we just have to try to think a step ahead of her." He winked, and Rodney smiled for the first time, and stayed standing in the street, watching as they pulled out.

For the first couple of blocks the boy poked quietly through the mess on the dash, finally finding a pair of yellow cotton work-gloves which he slipped on and held up against his face, and then dropped his hands into his lap. "Is my colt okay?" he asked.

"Sure he is, he's coming along just right. I've been working with him while you were down here visiting. Sacking him out a little bit every day, picking his feet up."

Kenneth was watching the houses drift by in the side window. "You think he remembers me?"

"He was asking about you before I left. He said to say yo." McEban could see the side of his face lift into a smile. "I probably shouldn't have, but I invited some girls to come over and stay in your room while you were gone. I got lonely."

"You did not."

"It was the Sherwin girls. I let them paint your ceiling pink and stick up a bunch of those stars that glow in the dark."

The boy was comfortable now, relaxing into the seat. "That's going too far," he said.

"Which part?"

"The ceiling part."

At a stop sign McEban said, "Your uncle Paul's moving to Africa."

"Right."

"He really is. To Uganda."

"Is he taking Jenny Sherwin with him?"

"I'm not kidding this time."

The boy screwed his face, locating the continent in his memory. "I did a report on Africa last year, but I don't know all the names of the countries. Is it close to the pyramids?"

"No, it's south of there. I'll show you in the atlas when we get home."

On the main drag there were mostly delivery vans, ranch and oilfield trucks. The boy lifted his gloved hands and scratched at the glovebox. "What's this look like?" he asked.

"An orangutan."

"That's what I think too. I went to Denver," he said, staring straight ahead.

"I thought they captured you in Cheyenne."

"I went to Denver first. I had a Denver omelet with a man, and he showed me where the Rockies play."

"Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

"What do you mean?" He pulled the gloves off, pairing them in his lap.

"This guy you had breakfast with in Denver. He didn't act funny or anything, did he?"

"He was a good guy."

"You could tell me."

"I would."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not yet."

He turned east onto the interstate. "How'd you get along with your brother and sister?"

"They're half."

"All right."

"I think I'll like them better when they get older."

McEban reached his chew off the dash and the boy leaned over to steer while he settled a fresh pinch under his lip.

"It's too bad Rodney married such an ugly woman, all wart-faced and bald and big-eared."

"Girls don't go bald."

"Some of them thin out a little."

"I think she's got really pretty ears."

"When was the last time you and me had waffles?"

Kenneth shook his head. "I don't think I've had waffles. Have you ever made any?"

"There's an IHOP over in Cheyenne. They'll put strawberries or blueberries or about anything you want on your waffles. And they got Frontier Days going on this week. I thought since we were over there anyway eating waffles we might take in a rodeo or two, maybe a concert if there's anyone we like."

The boy sat quietly and McEban thought he was picturing his breakfast, the week's possibilities.

"I'll be better next summer," he said. "I'll be a whole year older then, and three weeks won't seem like too long."

"You don't have to come down here next summer, or ever again, unless you want to. I told your dad they could all come and stay with us for awhile."

The sun was just off the horizon, the shadows long and dark to the west.

"What if my mom wants me to?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"No." He found the sunglasses on the dash and put them on. "Can you get waffles with a banana sliced on top?"

"I bet you can."

"I think that's what I'd like."