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out a box of granola bars. The children grabbed, ripped off the wrappers and stuffed their mouths, not caring if they consumed bits of paper with the nuts and raisins and oats.
    â€œGreedy guts,” said the doctor, pulling his black bag out of the back seat. He glanced at Albert. “Albert. How are you?”
    â€œGood enough, I don’t need your treats.” Albert spat through his front teeth.
    â€œGlad to hear it. A man should be able to feed himself.”
    Fat Felicity opened the door of the house, her hair in greasy hanks, her housecoat stained. “What’s up, doc?” she laughed.
    â€œThat never gets old, Felicity,” said Hawthorne. “Thought I’d stop in and see how Carrie’s getting along.” Carrie had had bronchitis and couldn’t stop coughing. “Are you using the cough medicine?”
    â€œYeah, but we don’t have much left.”
    â€œYou can’t have gone through that already, Felicity. It’s not recreational, you know.” Hawthorne climbed the steps.
    â€œTell that to Dan. You coming in?”
    â€œI thought I might, for a few minutes.”
    Griff climbed up the stairs behind him, smiling, gnawing on the last inch of his granola bar. The little boy plucked at the doctor’s coat.
    â€œYou got more?” he said.
    The doctor laughed and picked the little boy up, so that he straddled the man’s hip. Albert watched him.
Carries the kid like a goddamn woman.
They disappeared into the house and the rest of the kids, looking for more handouts, followed them in. Albert finished chopping kindling and carried it back to his cabin. Cindy came through the woods wearing her nightgown, a hunting jacket and rubber boots. Her coat was open and her breasts swung braless. She was just a couple of years older than Albert and even though she’d had Ruby when she was seventeen, her breasts were still good. She had her hair up in a high ponytail.
    â€œYou seen Ruby?”
    Albert jerked his chin in the direction of the house. “The doctor’s in.”
    â€œHuh. He bring any food?”
    â€œSays Brenda’s got impetigo.”
    â€œFuck. Again? Lloyd don’t keep those kids clean.”
    â€œWhat do you want Ruby for?”
    â€œGive me a break, Albert. Ray’s pissed she wet the bed again.” Ray was Cindy’s dad. Cindy stomped off in the direction of the house to get Ruby.
    An hour later she ran back, Ruby screaming in her arms. Dislocated shoulder. Thank God the good doctor was still around.

    And now, this morning, with the memory of Ruby’s cries in his head and the awful pop her shoulder made when the doctor yanked it back in its socket, Albert moved gingerly, cautiously, with full awareness that sudden movements could bring on vomiting. He made his way to the shelf where a gallon-sized plastic bottle of water stood. He raised it to his mouth, spilled some of it down his bare chest, corrected his aim and drank as though there was a leak in his stomach. The cold water made his belly cramp and he gagged, thought he would throw up, but didn’t. Albert hung his head.
    â€œIt’s not fair,” he said. Although, had anyone asked him what, precisely, was not fair, he would not have been able to say. Life, he supposed, although he knew better than to expect that. But there was a greater injustice. How hard he tried. All the effort he put in to being not like
them.
The Others. He did what he could. What more was expected of him? Why did he wake up in the morning feeling like the best thing ahead of him was a long jump and a short rope? Life asked too much. It ground a man down like sausage meat. He was doing his best. And he had dreams, just like anybody. And if his dream sometimes slipped into fantasy, of having a big house with a pool in the backyard—blue as sapphire, twinkling in the sun like silver and diamonds—with a room for each of the kids and a pretty little nanny, someone