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You called every few days at first, then nightly when schedules allowed. The conversations stayed practical enough to avoid embarrassment. Weather. The hens. Mateo’s science fair project. Sofía losing a tooth and demanding that the Tooth Fairy pay rural surcharges because “nature is far away.” You told them, in edited portions, about the investigation. Laura told you a coyote had taken one of the ducks and Mateo declared war in language borrowed from action movies.
But affection, when fed steadily, grows impatient with pretense.
One night in late October, after the prosecutors announced indictments, Laura answered on the second ring sounding tired.
“Long day?” you asked.
“Fence broke on the north pasture. Tractor wouldn’t start. Mateo got into a fight because some boy at school said people like us live in the middle of nowhere because we couldn’t make it anywhere else.”
You leaned back in your chair. “Did he win?”
“He bloodied the boy’s nose, so from one perspective.”
You smiled despite yourself. “What did you say?”
“That next time he should use words first.” She paused. “And then I said some places are far from the world because the world doesn’t know how to deserve them.”
The line went quiet between you.
Finally you said, “Laura.”
“Yes?”
“I miss you in a way that’s becoming very inconvenient.”
You heard her inhale.