“It’s like a bowl, the rim of a bowl,” she murmured. His fingers brushed her scalp and she shivered. “No beginning, no end. The river goes on and on. And kids come out to watch it in the night.”

“And barges come down with lights on.”

“The cotton grows,” she said, “and they harvest it and plant more.”

“And there are the same roles to be taken in the town,” he said. “Different people assume them. But they all get taken and worked, over and over-mayor, town drunk, planter. Newspaper editor.”

“Dogs get hit by cars,” she said, her voice sharpening, losing its drowsy dreamy pitch.

“And there are other dogs,” Randall said quietly. His hands rested in her hair, still, waiting.

“Other dogs,” she agreed after a moment, and his hands began moving.

She had almost lost their moment when she once again saw a large dun-colored dog lying by the side of a dusty road. But the continuity of the river, mirroring the continuity of their town, washed away that picture in its current.

They moved into the shade when Catherine’s skin began to prickle. Randall lay under a dilapidated picnic table, reckless of ants and other interested insects. Catherine lay on her stomach on top of the table, peering down at him. She was not afraid of ants, not today, but she wanted to see his face.

“What did you do in Washington?” she asked lazily.

“I gave out the senator’s press releases. I told people things. I leaked information on request.” He laughed.

“Did you want to come back?”

“Not at first. I had forgotten how it was. I was proud I was a citizen of the bigger world.”

“And later?”

“Well,” he said more slowly, “I didn’t resent the family-legacy thing after a while. Once I got back into living in Lowfield, it all seemed right and natural.”