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nothing to her, just a vapor in the combustion
chambers of her heart.
    He shifted into fourth.
    ####

    DOG PERSON

    The final breakfast was scrambled eggs, crisp
bacon, grits with real butter. Alison peeled four extra strips of
bacon from the slab. On this morning of all mornings, she would
keep the temperature of the stove eye just right. She wasn’t the
cook of the house, but Robert had taught her all about Southern
cuisine, especially that of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Before they
met, her breakfast consisted of a cup of what Robert teasingly
called a “girly French coffee” and maybe a yogurt. He’d introduced
her to the joys of an unhealthy start to the morning, along with
plenty of other things, the best of the rest coming after
sundown.
    Even after two years, Alison wasn’t as
enthusiastic about the morning cholesterol infusion as Robert was.
Or his dog. About once a week, though, she’d get up a half-hour
early, drag the scarred skillet from beneath the counter, and peel
those slick and marbled pieces of pig fat. The popping grease never
failed to mark a red spot or two along her wrist as she wielded the
spatula. But she wouldn’t gripe about the pain today.
    Robert would be coming down any minute. She
could almost picture him upstairs, brushing his teeth without
looking in the mirror. He wouldn’t be able to meet his own eyes.
Not with the job that awaited him.
    Alison cracked six eggs in a metal bowl and
tumbled them with a whisk until the yellow and white were mingled
but not fully mixed. The grits bubbled and burped on the back
burner. Two slices of bread stood in the sleeves of the toaster,
and the coffee maker gurgled as the last of its heated water
sprayed into the basket. Maxwell House, good old all-American farm
coffee.
    She avoided looking in the pantry, though the
louvered doors were parted. The giant bag of Kennel Ration stood in
a green trash can. On the shelf above was a box of Milk Bones and
rows of canned dog food. Robert had a theory that hot dogs and
turkey bologna were cheaper dog treats than the well-advertised
merchandise lines, but he liked to keep stock on hand just in case.
That was Robert; always planning ahead. But some things couldn’t be
planned, even when you expected them.
    Robert entered the room, buttoning the cuffs
on his flannel shirt. The skin beneath his eyes was puffed and
lavender. “Something smells good.”
    She shoveled the four bacon strips from the
skillet and placed them on a double layer of paper towels. “Only
the best today.”
    “ That’s sweet of
you.”
    “ I wish I could do
more.”
    “ You’ve done
plenty.”
    Robert moved past her without brushing
against her, though the counter ran down the center of the kitchen
and narrowed the floor space in front of the stove. Most mornings,
he would have given her an affectionate squeeze on the rear and she
would have threatened him with the spatula, grinning all the while.
This morning he poured himself a cup of coffee without asking if
she wanted one.
    She glanced at Robert as he bent into the
refrigerator to get some cream. At thirty-five, he was still in
shape, the blue jeans snug around him and only the slightest bulge
over his belt. His brown hair showed the faintest streaks of gray,
though the lines around his eyes and mouth had grown visibly deeper
in the last few months. He wore a beard but he hadn’t shaved his
neck in a week. He caught her looking.
    Alison turned her attention back to the pan.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
    “ Not much to say.” He
stirred his coffee, tapped his spoon on the cup’s ceramic rim, and
reached into the cabinet above the sink. He pulled the bottle of
Jack Daniels into the glare of the morning sun. Beyond the window,
sunlight filtered through the red and golden leaves of maple trees
that were about to enter their winter sleep.
    Robert never drank before noon, but Alison
didn’t comment as he tossed a splash into his coffee. “I made extra
bacon,” she said. “A