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nodding at the smartphone.
    “I’m posting to Twitter,” Lyle said, as if the excuse should be enough.
    “Lyle…” Marsha tried to maintain her calm. “Now.”
    “Jeez, all right already.” He shoved the cell into his back pocket.
    “See, now you’re going to sit down somewhere, or back up against something, and crack the screen. What happened to the holder I got you? The one that clips to your belt?”
    “It broke.”
    “And you were going to tell me when?”
    “When you asked.” His smile, filled with boyish charm, made her scream in her own head. Would you stop that? You have no power over me, child!
    “At least move it to your front pocket so it doesn’t get damaged accidentally.”
    “Fine.” Lyle did as she asked. “Better?”
    “Much.” She ruffled his corn-yellow hair, admiring the way he kept it. Paul had worn his hair like that. It looked even better on their son.
    Lyle shrank away, pulling his head out of her reach. Marsha cringed, a tight feeling growing in her chest. She wished she could get through to him. Even if he didn’t realize it, he was all she had left.
     

7
     
     
    MARK SIMMONS FELL TO THE back of the group. The trail dipped and dived in front of him. Up, then down. Every ascent stealing his breath, each descent giving him a chance to catch it.
    “One… two… three…”
    “What do you get when you reach a hundred? A cookie?” The little guy’s nametag read Donald . Mark locked the name away in his memory banks. He wouldn’t forget it.
    “Didn’t realize I was counting out loud. Sorry.”
    “No need to apologize, big fella.” Donald’s legs pumped quickly, carrying him along at the same pace as Mark.
    “My name’s Ma—”
    “Good to know.” Donald pointed ahead, toward the rest of the group. “You have any of those things?”
    “Huh?”
    “Kids. Do you have any?”
    Mark realized Donald had been pointing at the kid. Mark hadn’t paid much attention to the boy, other than to check his nametag—Lyle. He had noticed Lyle’s mom, Marsha, and wondered if Lyle’s father was still in the picture. “Nope. You?”
    “Skirted that disaster so far.” Donald gave him a thumbs up. “You married?”
    “Never.”
    “Good job, Tubby. Keep it that way. Chicks are nothing but trouble.” Mark started to add something about how being single wasn’t his preference, but Donald cut him off. “See the kid laughing? Betcha he looks back at us. Watch.”
    Lyle didn’t turn his head. Donald didn’t seem too happy about being wrong. Mark watched his hands curl into balls. Relax, repeat. “He will. He’ll make a joke to his mother, then turn around and give us a look. Something about the midget and the fat guy. Sure, his mom will tell him to behave himself, but it will already have been said. Just you wait.”
    Mark thought about the little girl at the airport that morning—Deborah—and how she’d commented with great enthusiasm about his girth. He’d responded, poorly, by flipping her off. But that had only been the jetlag, or at least he would tell himself that. “Not a good way to go through life, is it? Expecting the worst out of people?”
    “You expect the best? You?” Donald laughed. “Good luck with that shit.”
    Mark was aware that as he walked, he jiggled. He could feel Donald watching his stomach as it rolled and shook. The little guy was sizing him up, taking in all his faults. Mark had grown used to it over the years, but he thought it funny how Donald wanted to focus on his shortcomings when the guy was coming up short himself.
    “I just don’t think—”
    “That’s what you get for thinking. I can’t hear a word that guide is saying. Can you?”
    Mark let Donald’s brash attitude roll off his back. He was there to do a job. And it would be done. Speaking of which…
    He raised his camera and began snapping pictures of the trail. He caught the scrub on either side, the sun coming through the trees, cylindrical beams filled to the brim with