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He could barely hear the big motors. Then touchdown, all safe, a kind of inner thrill.
    Then the phone rang again and he went and looked at the caller ID: his ex-wife, Dawn, calling at midnight. RL did not know much, but he did know well enough to leave this call for another day. The women of the world would have to find somebody else to pick on tonight. He was done with errands, done with explanations. If this was an emergency, it was not his emergency. He took a bottle of Trout Slayer from the fridge, in case the first one ran out, and went back outside to watch the lights, to feel the summer, fading fast. After a minute, the phone began to ring again, and he let it.

*
    Nothing good will come of this , June thought. Nothing good ever came of a man with a clipboard or a mustache or a big hat, and Howard Emerson had all three.
    Funny thing, he said. They were striding through cut hay, walking the back fence line where it ran up next to the state park. June could smell the river, late summer, low water, muck and rot. They were right by the water.
    Bunch of hippies back in I think it was 1969, Howard Emerson said. Borrowed money from Mom and Dad and I don’t know who or what-all else and they got together and bought six hundred acres down on Kootenai Creek and started a hippie commune, the real thing. It didn’t last long. I guess they all hated each other by the end, plus there was some random shooting and so on by the locals.That was back when the Posse Comitatus was in action—you ever hear of them?
    No, said June.
    Make the Freemen look like a Sunday-school outfit, said Howard Emerson. Anyway, they got run out of there—or they run themselves out, whichever—and I guess none of ’em could stand each other enough to talk to one another. The place just sat the same as you’re doing, leasing out the hay and renting out the house. Thirty years of this. Then one of ’em died, I guess, and they called me up to put a value on the place. None of ’em had any idea. They about fell down when I gave them the number. Jim Canady lives there now.
    He looked at her under the brim of his hat like she was supposed to be impressed, but June drew a blank.
    Baseball pitcher, said Howard Emerson. Middle relief, setup guy. Threw for the Cardinals for a while. Nicest person you ever met.
    Great! she said.
    Bunch of rich hippies now, said Howard Emerson. Ex-hippies, I guess, by now. Just goes to show.
    What does it go to show?
June wanted to know.
To whom does it show what? To whom? Who tomb? No more of Howard Emerson for me
.
    I’m not making you nervous, am I? asked Howard Emerson.
    * * *
    No, no.
    You seem nervous.
    No, I …
    I guess you’ve had this place for a while, he said. Must have been pretty nice out here. You got in before the golf course. I remember it used to stink out here something awful from the paper mill. Glad they got that business cleaned up. Just like a wet dog, all day and all of the night. Don’t know how you could stand it.
    It was never that bad.
    Oh, yes it was. I remember. But, you know, all’s well that ends well. I imagine you got the place for a pretty good price. I’m not going to ask but I imagine it was a good, good price. I think you’ll be pretty pleased if you do decide to sell.
    I haven’t really made up my mind yet, June said. I keep going back and forth.
    I absolutely understand.
    A lot of memories tied up in one place.
    I’m not trying to talk you into anything, one way or the other, said Howard Emerson. I’m just saying. You don’t have to leave the memories behind with the place—you can take them with you, whatever you decide. Hell, I grew up in California, in a place that’s not even there anymore. The same houses and the same streets but nobody even speaks English now. And it’s a nice neighborhood, too,still a nice neighborhood, it’s just full of people from the Philippines. But, you know, none of it goes away—we’ve all got the pictures and the memories. A lot of us still