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Theodore always says, when we’re afraid and questioning everything, that deep down we know the truth. We just don’t want to face our feelings sometimes. What does your gut tell you? What do you know?”
    Jack exhales and looks away. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
    It’s as if I’ve been stabbed. I try not to show any panic. “What?” I hear the squeak in my voice and cough to try and hide it.
    Jack looks at me. “I haven’t felt right in a while.”
    “How long?”
    “A few months. I get foggy in the afternoon, and I don’t have the energy I used to. Sometimes I can’t catch my breath. Now, part of that is being fifty-four, and part of it isn’t right.”
    “Let’s go in and see Dr. Stemple. She’ll get to the bottom of things. Okay?” I give him a quick kiss. We climb out of the truck, and I take his hand as we go up the steps into the hospital.
    We sign in at the desk and take a seat outside the glass partition and wait. I put my arm around my husband. We don’t talk. What is there to say?
    I must be the worst wife in the world. He hasn’t felt right for several months, and I didn’t even notice. Of course, there were other things on my mind. My daughter decided to drop college and get married in a foreign country, for starters. The truth is, I wouldn’t have noticed anything about Jack unless he keeled over in front of me. I was wrapped up in my own feelings and worries about our daughter’s future. I promise myself that from this moment forward, I will stay alert to his needs. He deserves that.
    The nurse calls his name.
    “You want me to come?” I ask him. He shrugs, so I follow him into the examining room, a sunny, small space painted pale pink. “This is the tough-guy room,” I joke.
    “I’m not feeling very tough,” Jack says as he goes behind the changing screen to undress. He throws his sweater over the top. Instinctively, I pull it down, shake it out, and fold it neatly over my arm.
    Dr. Stemple pushes the door open. “How are we today?” Jack emerges from behind the screen. Dr. Stemple extends her hand to him. “You look pretty good.”
    “You think?”
    I take a seat on the chair near the door and watch as Jack is examined and answers the doctor’s questions like Gary Cooper in
High Noon:
he yups and nopes and occasionally gives a silent shrug. When she asks about dizziness and indigestion and shooting pains down his arms, Jack says nope each time with conviction. I’m relieved. Maybe it’s not Jack’s heart. Maybe it’s some small problem, easily fixed.
    “I’m going to send you over to Kingsport for a stress test,” she tells him. She tears a sheet off her clipboard and hands it to Jack. “You check out fine, except that blood pressure. It’s on the high side.”
    “Too high?” I chirp.
    “I don’t like it,” she says simply. “I want them to do a tissue sample on your lungs too.”
    “Why?” Jack’s voice breaks.
    “You worked in the mines for almost thirty years, Jack. It’s important to stay on top of any changes in your lungs. You have some congestion.” She makes a note on her clipboard. “Look, it could be nothing. You just took a transatlantic flight—that’s a regular germ bath. Don’t worry.” She pats his hand and smiles at me. “I’m glad you came to see me,” she says as she leaves the room.
    I look at my husband. “See, it’s good news.”
    “Now I gotta go get poked and prodded in Kingsport. Great.”

Roaring Branch
    I f you didn’t know it was September by watching the mountains fade from the bright, saturated tones of a Technicolor movie to the soft gray shades of a black-and-white one, you’d know it for sure as you drove through town. It’s football season, and the signs are everywhere. Literally. Long runners of white butcher paper (donated by Bob’s Market out in the southern section of town) have been hand-painted by the cheerleaders with aphorisms to inspire the Powell Valley Vikings to victory. My