THE COACH said if they didn’t win, they never would. Dillon County was the worst he knew of; they wore football cleats, used cardboard for shin guards. He made them stand a circle around him before the game, walked a short line and looked hard at their still faces.

Play under control, he said. Break legs, dammit. Show these fuckers what’s what.

Dillon County scored the first goal just past twenty minutes into the first half, a low runner toed to the right bottom corner. The coach went down to his knees and pounded the dirt with both fists. He pulled a kid named Merrill, and he sent another in. Merrill went to the water cooler, filled a cup and turned it over his head. The coach stood in front of him and pointed at his chest, whispered a snarl. Merrill turned to go at the field, and the coach took him by the shoulder. He looked hard at him again; Merrill nodded, bent down and tied a cleat, pulled his socks high and stood up. Coach pointed to the field.

Go dammit, he said. This is your job. This is your call.

Merrill turned his eyes down, knocked the ground with the tip of one cleat.

Merrill went midfield, stayed with Dillon County’s one good player, the lanky fast kid that scored first. Merrill drifted back a little. The fast kid crossed midfield, caught the ball inside of his left foot, ran a slant to their sideline. Merrill slid at his legs, and then the fast one was up in the air, and then he was twisted on the ground.

At home Terry opened the window in his bedroom and sat beneath it. He spoke to her.

I’ll seek you there, he said. In the still part of the afternoon. In the dry wind. Would you show me your face? Could I touch your dress?

The neighbor’s tabby was plaintive, stalking redbirds in the yard, head jutted over pansy and marigold, butterfly in her mouth.