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for me to read. It forces me to focus on his words and his actions, which are unreliable even in the most trustworthy of folks. I do wonder sometimes if I’m seeing him all wrong.
    Anyway, once a month, Roland comes to visit. He doesn’t stay long, and we usually talk about Cass. Since she’s out in the middle of nowhere by herself most of the time, maybe he just wants to assure me that she’s okay. But I know she isn’t. I’ve tried to convince him to move her back to town so I can keep an eye on her, but he won’t do it. I’ve seen her acting differently when she comes over, and I wonder if maybe her visions are getting too powerful for her. But Roland doesn’t understand that, and he doesn’t believe it, either. I wish I could see inside of him, so I could find a way to make him believe.
    A few weeks ago, he came by while I was out back, crushing up some red chickweed for lotion. His shirt was rumpled, he smelled of beer, and he had a two-day start on a scruffy beard. I know his job at the strip club keeps him out late into the morning at times, but I also think he might be doing other things. I’m not going to jump to conclusions about the man. And he won’t let me read his cards.
    “I found a place for Cass,” he said. He talks slowly when he talks to me. He has a filthy mouth, and he tries to control it in my house. I do appreciate that.
    “What kind of a place?”
    He gave me a knowing nod.
    I had an idea. I had her mother in a lot of places when she was young. None of them did any good. “Maybe there’s something else you can do,” I said. “I’ll help. I don’t want her to—”
    “Ms. Shatner, I can’t take it anymore. Hell, I’m too young to have to deal with this crap.” He walked off the back porch and spit toward my begonias.
    “Hold your mouth,” I said.
    But he’d already said enough. Sending her away was about him, not her. Even decent men wear out sometimes. I asked him to please give it more time, and he said he would, but I could tell he pretty much had his mind made up. He thinks he’s doing right. I don’t.
    That was a few weeks ago. I haven’t seen him since, and today, here is Cass, all by herself. I’m delighted to see her—we don’t get much alone time these days—but I wonder how she came to be out by herself. Maybe Roland decided to give her a bit more freedom to see if it helped. Or maybe she just stole the truck keys while he was sleeping.
    I sit on the porch and try to see the raindrops, which isn’t easy on days when the sun is still out. But I can smell a hint of wet earth and hear the rain as it hits the pavement. “A devil’s day,” my grandma used to say. I didn’t notice any clouds earlier, but they do come up pretty fast this time of year. Who knows? Maybe Cass brought her own. Whatever it is, the devil has come out to have some fun today, and Cass is his playmate of choice.
    She gets out of the truck and stands still for a minute, turning her face up toward the sun and letting the drops hit her. I have to smile. I love my girls, and I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but Cass has always been the one. I think she sees more than she admits, but every time she lets that out, that doctor of hers gives her more pills. I keep telling her those pills are going to kill her, but Roland says they make her calmer, and I have to trust that he’s doing right by her.
    She’s carrying a brown paper bag freckled with raindrops. She walks slowly toward me, staring at her feet. She keeps her head down when she gets on the porch, and I can tell by the way that she curls her legs underneath her as she sits in one of my rickety wicker chairs that something isn’t right. Her colors are darker than usual—not anything I’d call bad, just darker.
    “What did you do?” I ask.
    One thing about my Cass, she never lies. She even has a habit of telling the truth when she should keep hushed. She’s never had any problem standing that five-foot frame up to the