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over the batwing doors, but underneath them she spotted beautiful balmorals next to ankle jacks and brogans. Unlike in the great city, the classes mixed here. Sarah took this as a good sign.
    The few denizens they passed on the street did not nod their heads or utter greetings. Instead, the moment anyone caught sight of the family meandering down the center of Main Street, they slowed their stride to a luxuriant stroll, eyeing them as they glided by.
    The hotel was a block removed from the saloon. It stood two broad stories tall and was lit by kerosene lamps that hung from the eaves. The aromas of coffee and lintel beans wafted from the lobby. Inside, dishes and silverware tinked, and her stomach groaned: she’d eaten only an ear of corn all day.
    Papa turned to Sarah and her mother after he stepped under the awning. “Wait here.” He caught Mama’s eye as she was about to protest. “Just do it.”
    Mama sighed, turned, and Sarah followed her gaze. She couldn’t tell if her mother was looking across the street, at the various closed establishments, or at the street itself, where blobs of manure hosted flies.
    When he returned, he said, “At least tonight you won’t freeze on one side,” and offered an uneasy smile to Mama. He led them inside.
    Looming over a wide counter, the innkeeper looked them over.

Chapter Four: Body and Mind
    1
    It rained in Simola Straight all that Sunday. The Liebers stayed in, Veronica reading a Larry McMurtry novel, Jenn playing with her dolls, and Robert scared and alone in his office. Every time he blinked he saw those two dots of blood, and while he knew it could be anything it was exactly this that bothered him: the possibilities.
    Although he knew he should, he couldn’t stay off the Internet. After consulting a search engine for blood in stool (and eighteen million, four hundred thousand fired back in .18 second) he scrolled through all he could, even telling Veronica he was working on an essay when she called him to dinner. By nine, he was utterly convinced he had either bowel cancer or a positively nuclear hemorrhoid. He knew he should consult his doctor, but found, quite in contrast to his history of hypochondria, he didn’t want to know yet. Dogged by aching eyes, he logged off around ten and climbed the stairs, feeling like a ghost. He slid into bed, grabbed the remote and clicked on CNN.
    And the world wasn’t doing so hot either.
    * * * * *
    At ten after midnight, his stomach cramped and he bolted up, straight out of a dead sleep. He doubled over, racing to the toilet. After it ended he stayed put, shivering and sweating. He closed his eyes and stood unsteadily, not wanting to look back. But the possibility of an answer was there, the easy answer of a popped blood vessel or a sore. He turned, opened his eyes.
    The toilet was filled with blood.
    * * * * *
    With what seemed a superhuman effort, Robert stepped from the bathroom, tiptoeing to his daughter’s room. He pushed at her door and it creaked open. She lay on her side, her arm around a tattered Raggedy-Andy, her opposite hand cupped over her ear. The light slicing through the blinds illuminated the Barbies on the toy chest. The dolls’s eyes were like shards of obsidian. He watched her, heard the wheezing her sinus trouble caused, saw her eyes roam behind her eyelids, and his emotions rose. What did Jenn explore in her sleep? Did she have nightmares? More important, did she have dreams? These thoughts made him angry. He didn’t want to miss her childhood, or those bad days in junior high when she would believe all the boys despised her. And he certainly didn’t want to miss when she discovered they didn’t. The tears were hot on his cheeks, and he blotted them with his palm. Jenn’s covers rose and fell. He pried his eyes from the form of his only child, scanned her shoe closet, then took a deep breath, reminding himself that there was any number of answers besides the Big C. He had to keep his habit of