In late February a storm knocked out power across half the county for thirty hours. Walt heated soup on the propane camping stove and slept in the living room near the fireplace with Eleanor's fiddle case and Ruth's empty corner both visible in the firelight. He dreamed of the barn dance—of the snap, of the spare string, of Ruth's hand extended—and woke to a cold house and a resolve that surprised him. When the power returned he called the operator and placed a long-distance call to the number Ruth had given him for the studio's front desk. He left a message. She called back that night, voice crackling across the wires.
"You called," she said. "You hate the phone."
"I hate the phone less than I hate not hearing you after a storm," Walt said.
They talked for twenty-seven minutes, which Margaret later calculated had probably cost him a small fortune, and Walt said it was the best money he had spent since the spare strings.
March's extension letter hurt more than he admitted to Margaret. He mailed the bus ticket voucher and the note about the porch light, then walked out to the barn and worked until his shoulders burned. Dale found him there near dusk and handed him a beer without commentary. They drank in the doorway looking at the muddy yard.