He made his way to the main level, where he put the enchiladas in the fridge and checked his messages. Only one, from Claudia, saying that she hadn’t called his cell because she knew he was at his mom’s.

He smiled. She was like that, Claudia. He wasn’t used to the women he dated being so thoughtful and low-key. It was easy to take her for granted, and he did so now—not calling her back as he got his gear and clothes together.

There wasn’t much to do, actually. Since he hadn’t had any showings that day, he’d been home in the afternoon, and had already packed most of his gear—filling up the bulky, old-school backpack, borrowed from Eduardo, organizing his food. His bags of jerky and trail mix and freeze-dried meals were all stuffed into his pack. He double-checked to make sure he had the new items he’d splurged on—a headlamp, a GPS device, lightweight collapsible plates. Then he decided to throw together a small duffel for the first night, when they’d be staying at a campground. He packed sneakers and extra jeans, a heavier jacket. But soon he was done, his two bags ready by the door.

He opened a beer and stepped onto the patio, gazing out at the lights of Eagle Rock and Pasadena. It was a cool night, but clear, early summer in LA; the head and taillights of the cars on the 134 looked like stars moving sideways across the sky. For the first time in ages, he felt truly alone, felt what it was like to be by himself, and to be himself, Oscar Barajas, not a father or son or boyfriend at this particular moment, just a man, about to spend four days away from everything he knew. Fuck Coach Eric, he thought. Fuck anyone who didn’t think he could do this.

It was after ten, and he knew that Claudia would be in bed—she worked the early shift as a pediatric nurse at Kaiser on Sunset—so he texted her goodnight and said he’d call her in the morning. Then he went to bed, leaving the sliding glass door to the deck open to get some fresh air.

He awoke around three thirty a.m., groggily, not sure what had disturbed him, until the sound from his dream continued as he opened his eyes. It was a car horn, going off for several seconds. He heard the horn, and then the silence—and then another horn, held slightly shorter, answering back. He lay fully awake now, and it happened again—one car horn, followed seconds later by the other. And again, and again, and now he was annoyed. Really? he thought. At three thirty a.m. on a Wednesday night? The sounds could have been from people leaving The Eastside, another new hipster bar down on Verdugo. He got up and closed the door to the deck but still he could hear them—one horn rich and sonorous, almost like a trumpet, the other one higher and flatter. The sounds would vary in length and in the time lapsed between them, so when the first horn sounded he couldn’t relax until the second one completed the exchange. Sometimes the answer came right away, sometimes it took five or ten seconds. There was no pattern he could expect and tune out. Again he cursed the newcomers, the hipsters who’d invaded this part of town and showed so little regard for those who’d always lived here, working people. Now it was four a.m. and he was getting up at six.

But then he thought of the Great Horned Owls that appeared every winter, one that took up residence in a tree across the street, its mate on a telephone pole just down the hill. They’d start at dusk, the black silhouette of the male almost eye level from his bedroom deck, leaning forward and spreading his wings as he released his call, the four-syllable appeal to his smaller intended. It would be followed, soon after, by the answer from down the street, and the two owls could go on like this, calling and answering, for hours. He and Lily would step out on the deck and watch them sometimes, to witness the conversation, the courting. One night they came out and saw not one silhouette but two—the owls perched on the branch just inches apart, quiet now in their togetherness.

The thought of the owls calmed Oscar—if he could sleep through them, he could sleep through this. Besides, maybe there was something kind of sweet about this exchange. However awkwardly, however inconsiderately, people were reaching out to one another—sending a call into the world and getting a response. On a night when he’d felt so alone, he suddenly wasn’t lonely. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Three

Todd

Todd Harris woke up before the alarm sounded and listened to the quiet. He loved these few minutes at the start of the day—before he showered and dressed for work, before the chaos of breakfast with children. Often it was still dark—he usually woke before six—and he felt like the only person in the world, or one of two. He reached out for his wife, Kelly, but she wasn’t there. He could tell from the empty coolness of the sheets that she’d already been gone for some time.

During the first few years of their marriage, they always woke together. Even after Joey was born, they’d lie in bed in the morning, talking about their plans for the day. Often, morning was when they’d make love, the sense of peace and connection sustaining them through the day. And they’d lie together at night too, reading or talking, the bed a refuge from the constant motion of their lives. When Brooke came along three years later, things started to change. They’d fall asleep as soon as they went to bed, and Kelly would be up before him in the morning. It was easy to blame these changes on exhaustion, on the kids, but Todd knew it was more than that. Even with all the time they spent together, they had somehow lost touch.

Todd sat up, swung his feet over the side of the bed, and thought about work. He was a partner at Harrington & Fletcher, one of the top law firms in the city. He worked on corporate antitrust and licensing cases, and there was never a shortage of companies that wanted other companies to stay out of their field, not compete for their customers, or not exist at all. Just two weeks ago he’d helped negotiate a $300 million settlement on behalf of DataSense, a software company in Silicon Valley, bringing the firm—and himself—a big payout. Now he was working on a couple of smaller licensing issues, including one on behalf of the Colsons, his clients from hell. But then he noticed his backpack in the corner and remembered that he wasn’t going to the office. Suddenly everything shifted and he thought: I don’t have to put on a suit today. He felt tremendous pleasure at this fact.

He stood up, slid into his slippers, and walked over to the window. He looked at the empty cat hammock there, half expecting to see Roger, his cantankerous gray tabby. But they’d had to put Roger down last month, and he felt again the twinge of sadness. He opened the curtains and looked out into their yard, just revealing itself in the first light of morning. It was gorgeous here in June, the jasmine white and pristine, the lantana delicate and purple against the thick green shrubs. A hundred feet in front of him was the giant oak with the kids’ treehouse, which was as big as his first apartment. They lived in Brentwood, close enough to the ocean for the overcast skies of June Gloom to last all day and into evening, yet what they lost in sun they gained in landscape, their yard and garden much more lush than those of properties farther inland. But the thick grass, the sculpted rosebushes, the native poppies and Mexican sage and primrose didn’t happen by accident; their gardener came twice a week, and it showed.

It also cost. The gardener, the tree trimmer, the housekeeper, the cook, the nannies for Brooke and Joey, all of it took money. Not to mention the obligations of the house itself—upkeep, taxes, insurance. They had a four-bedroom Spanish-style traditional, with a spacious living room that opened out onto a half-acre lot, even a wet bar in the basement where he and Kelly had once made cocktails, when having their own place had still been a novelty and pleasure. Even though the house had been a wedding gift from Kelly’s parents, the expenses were a lot to manage. And then there were other things—the kids’ tuition, and fees for their summer activities. Membership dues for the Ocean Club and the country club and the women’s auxiliary that Kelly belonged to, not to mention her clothing and accessories, their evenings out and the charity events, their always clean luxury cars. Todd was doing well at work, making more money than he could ever have dreamed of as a boy in Wisconsin, before his father died and his mother met John Ingram and they moved to California, and he traded the woods and lakes and marshes for the beach. And yet somehow, paying for everything was still a struggle. Kelly didn’t seem to comprehend that money was something that Todd earned, something he had to work for; in her experience, money simply accumulated. It boggled Todd’s mind that his father-in-law, who lived solely off investments, made several times as much money each year as Todd did.