He loved Claire. He was fairly sure he always would, in some form. He could forgive her. Some days in Dr. Marsh's office he felt it begin, a loosening, like a hand slowly unclenching. But he couldn't live inside it. Every thunderstorm, he would think about the derecho. Every time he went into the garage he would see the black outlines on the pegboard. Every time Claire was quiet at dinner he would wonder where she was. He would spend the rest of their marriage standing guard over it, the way he had stood guard over everything his whole life, waiting for the next blast. She would spend it trying to earn back something that couldn't be earned, only given. And Owen would grow up in that house, under that weather. He knew now that Owen felt every pressure change through the walls.
He thought about his mother on the deck in the quilt, saying she still didn't know whether she had been right to stay.
He thought about the boy in the linen closet.
He called the branch manager on the second of January and turned down the slot at Campbell. He asked instead for an instructor position at the Army Logistics University at Fort Gregg-Adams, twenty-two minutes from Larkspur Court. Everyone knew that was where careers went to finish quietly. The branch manager asked him twice whether he was sure. He said he was sure.