January's cold was a different animal: sharper, less forgiving. The Denver letter arrived into that cold like a stone through ice. After they talked at the kitchen table—after the kiss, after the decision that she would go—Walt drove her to the Sanders place and helped her sort what would travel and what would wait. The cream prairie dress she folded with a care that made his throat tight. The notebooks she stacked by weight. A mug she had bought at a gas station in Iowa she left on the Harlan drainboard "so the kitchen doesn't forget me."
"Kitchens don't forget," Walt said. "People do. I'm working on not being people."
The night before she left they walked the west fence line under a sky dense with stars. Frost crackled under their boots. Ruth stopped at the corner post and rested her gloved hand on the wire.
"I'm afraid I'll become shiny and hollow out there," she said. "Studios can do that. Make you sound perfect and feel like a recording of yourself."
"Then call me when you feel hollow," Walt said. "I'll remind you that you once played for a heifer and a man with two left feet. That's hard to shine away."