The king of Ustreasia was a wealthy man, wealthy beyond compare. His kingdom was peaceful and lovely, and his people were hardworking and kind and ethical, for the most part. But for all the riches of his kingdom the king’s true pride was his herd of elephants. And what elephants! Bulls all, with slashing tusks and stamping feet and trumpeting calls that echoed throughout the capital. For generations the royal trainers had taught the elephants to march in procession, to carry the king and queen upon their backs. They passed the knowledge of their profession on to their children and were respected with soldiers and priests. The people watched the royal parades and felt pride, and visiting rulers smiled in appreciation of such well-kept animals. Read on

Christmas when Sanders was six his parents took him to New York. They admired the tree in Rockefeller Center; they gaped at the lights and the toy store windows; they ice-skated in Central Park. They saw the Rockettes, Joan Sanders’ dream since her own childhood. In half-embarrassed whispers she had shared memories of seeing the Rockettes on television, of wanting to be a Rockette, herself, when she grew up. Young Bunchanan didn’t see what was the big deal, but he understood that it was a big deal, and he, the dutiful son, listened politely, recognizing even at his tender age that his mother, all things being equal, would rather have had a daughter. “You probably don’t understand,” she said, laughing it off, and he shrugged and smiled to indicate that he sort of did, maybe, that at least he wished he did.

But the Rockettes scared him. He couldn’t have said why, but sitting in the darkened theater he began to cry. When it became clear that he couldn’t or wouldn’t stop, his father offered to take him outside, and Joan — Buchanan would never forget her face at that moment — Joan nodded in agreement, smiled at her son to tell him it was all right, but he saw the sadness in her eyes. He saw the disappointment of someone who, convinced that what she has is really too good to be true, is almost relieved to have it taken from her. And — for an instant — a flash of anger at her husband, as if he had planned his escape from the beginning, coaching the boy to cry and practicing his look of patient regret in the mirror, while shaving. Then she turned back to the show, and Paul Sanders led his sniveling son down the row of people who turned their knees to let them pass but arched their necks to keep their eyes on the action. They found the spectacle cheery and Christmas-y and not a bit frightening; little Buchanan Sanders sobbed all the harder in embarrassment. Read on

“What you got going on this weekend?” Amit asked Britney through a mouthful of noodles.

“Nothing much.”

“No hot date?”

Britney smiled and, to Sanders’ relief, merely shrugged. His own puerile interest in Britney’s love life was dwarfed by his horror of Amit’s.

“What are your plans?”

“I was invited to go hunting,” Amit said. Read on

When Buchanan and Suzanne Sanders split up he left her with the photo albums — not from magnanimity or disinterest or the anticipation of one day returning, but from weariness at the thought of another argument. But while she was occupied with Maddie he slipped two photos from their sleeves and hid them inside the cover of a book Suzanne couldn’t possibly want to keep. In one, he and two year-old Maddie crouched in the grass, the child pointing out a dandelion, turning to her father with a look of glee and fascination unelicitable by any bouquet. On moving into his new apartment he placed it in a frame on his dresser.

In the other photograph Buchanan and Suzanne posed with a turkey. The year they were married they made excuses to family and cooked Thanksgiving dinner for friends, and so proud were they of the bird, crisp and browned and fragrant, that they asked one of their guests to take their picture. They stood on either side of the stove in the tiny kitchen of their apartment; Sanders smirked at the camera — the wine had been opened early — while Suzanne posed politely with her hand in an oven mitt on the handle of the roasting pan. As the shutter snapped she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, the hint of a smile about to cross her face. The cat, meanwhile, had leapt onto the counter, and his head protruded from behind Sanders’ left arm, leaning in toward the bird, eyeing it hungrily.

The second photo was taped to the inside of one of Sanders’ kitchen cabinets, where he saw it every time he reached for canned tomatoes, or bourbon. A double reminder: He once was loved, and you never know what is looking over your shoulder.

From the hotel there was nowhere to walk. After a morning’s prostration before his cinema display Sanders craved movement, but he had few options. Conveniently located minutes from the airport, a short drive from three major universities and a professional hockey stadium, the Belmont RTP Resort and Conference Center was unreachable on foot, bounded by an interstate, a state-numbered divided highway, the golf course, and a private business campus. On two sides an escapee risked being flattened; the others were heavily guarded. The hotel’s brochure boasted a walking trail, but it was a narrow strip of macadam that looped around a small pond a few hundred yards from the lobby before returning to circumnavigate the parking lot. The pond itself Sanders found pleasant enough, but the same pond, the same geese, the same short path — Sanders and Amit, between clients, once measured it at precisely 583.6 meters — wore on him after four and a half years. A walk or two a day adds up: Three, four hundred walks a year, over a thousand since the brother of Amit’s ex-girlfriend became the Belmont’s manager and consented to rent them his extra conference space. A thousand identical walks. It might as well have been a habitrail. Read on