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maize-colored field. Harper had a similar print hanging above his bed in law school, and whenever I went over to his room, I imagined that the picture must be what Kansas looked like—that it reminded Harper of home. But, actually, Kansas doesn’t look much like the picture at all. At least not the parts of Kansas I’ve seen. Kansas is not nearly as flat, and it’s a lot greener.
    Harper hangs up the phone and then leans back into his chair, locking his fingers behind his head.
    â€œI want you to do something for me,” he says. “I want you to take Joyce Ives’s case.”
    My lungs fill several times before I respond. “We talked about this. As a matter of fact, you’re the one who told me that I’d be crazy if I
did
take it.”
    â€œI know, I know. But do me this favor: call her—talk to her. Tell her you’ll take it.”
    â€œHarper, you know this case? She’s insane. Her husband was cheating on her with a waitress at Gooland’s,so Joyce followed him there, on his lunch hour or something, and then drove her car through the fuckin’ front of the restaurant. Not only is she
not
willing to pay for the damages she caused to Gooland’s—which, I understand, is in the neighborhood of twelve thousand dollars—but she’s suing to recoup her costs for the crushed car
and
for money she spent on hospital bills. From what I hear, she suffered a pinched nerve in her neck and lacerations to her face when a couple of cinder blocks shattered her windshield.”
    Harper removes a cigar from a polished mahogany humidor on the corner of his desk. He pulls a black clipper from his top drawer and snips off the end of the cigar, brushing the thumbnail-sized nub onto the floor.
    â€œThis is not a good case,” he says, rolling the cigar against the center of his tongue, forming a saliva-filled trough. “I am certainly aware of that. But do this for me. I have my reasons.”
    â€œAre you going to tell me what those reasons are?”
    Harper holds the cigar gently between his teeth, moving the flame of an orb-shaped lighter toward the blunt tip.
    â€œI will,” he answers, making the word “will” sound more like “with” as his tongue knocks against the soft butt of the cigar. “Just not yet.” His face disappears behind a funnel of smoke and I move toward the doorway, turning back before I leave.
    â€œWhat’s your brother doing in the waiting room?” I ask.
    â€œHe’s reading. Buster Horry complained to him the other day about our assortment of magazines, said therewere too many for women. Richard said they were divided evenly, fifty-fifty. But it seems Buster categorizes any publication that doesn’t solicit advertising for manure spreaders as being for women.”
    An enormous piece of clear plastic is held by uneven sections of silver duct tape over the outside wall of Gooland’s. It shields a hole roughly the size of a Dodge Dart. A small piece of the plastic is dog-eared above the upper left-hand corner, winking in the breeze. High, away from the damage, a wooden sign spells out Gooland’s vertically, from top to bottom, in red block letters. At its base, in horizontal blue cursive, it says: Breakfast Served Anytime. Inside, a space heater rests beside the unwanted opening, its coil red-faced and throbbing. A long linoleum counter bisects the far end of the restaurant, behind seven swivel-top stools. Eight tables are pressed tight against the side walls—four on each side—and six more tables are arranged about center-floor. Squeezed into white polyester, a waitress leans against the cash register while leafing through the newspaper. Only a couple of the tables are occupied.
    I sit at the counter and another waitress appears from the kitchen. She is wearing the same dress as the first waitress, but she has a thick cardigan sweater overtop.
    â€œCoffee?” she asks.
    I