Terese had a friend who owned a small Caribbean island not far from Aruba. We ran off that very night and told no one where we were going. We ended up spending three weeks there, making love, barely talking, vanishing and tearing into each other because there was nothing else.

"Of course I remember," I said.

"We both had been crushed. We never talked about it. But we both knew."

"Yes."

"Whatever crushed you," Terese said, "you were able to move past it. That's natural. We recover. We get damaged and then we rebuild."

"And you?"

"I couldn't rebuild. I don't even think I wanted to rebuild. I was shattered and maybe it was best to keep me that way."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Her voice was soft now. "I didn't think-check that, I still don't think-that I would like to see what my world would look like rebuilt. I don't think I would like the result."

"Terese?"

She didn't reply.

"I want to help," I said.

"Maybe you can't," she said. "Maybe there's no point."

More silence.

"Forget I called, Myron. Take care of yourself."

And then she was gone.

2

"AH," Win said, "the delectable Terese Collins. Now that's a top-quality, world-class derriere."

We sat in the rickety pullout stands in the Kasselton High School gymnasium. The familiar whiffs of sweat and industrial cleaner filled the air. All sounds, as in every similar gymnasium across this vast continent, were distorted, the strange echoes forming the audio equivalent of a shower curtain.

I love gyms like this. I grew up in them. I spent many of my happiest moments in similar airless confines with a basketball in my hand. I love the sound of the dribbling. I love the sheen of sweat that starts popping up on faces during warm-ups. I love the feel of the pebbly leather on your fingertips; that moment of neo-religious purity when your eyes lock on the front rim and you release the ball and it backspins and there is nothing else in the entire world.