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At four in the afternoon, I've got both hands down in the east tank, feeling for the float valve where the grit has jammed it. The water's cold enough to ache. I work the valve loose and clear it and hold it under and let the tank fill against my wrists until it shuts off clean.

It works.

I dry my hands on my jeans and go check the next thing.

The papers come from Casper on a Thursday, in a flat envelope with the firm's name in the corner. I read them at the kitchen table with my coat still on.

Video contact twice a week, and visits in North Carolina at my own expense and on my own travel. There's a line about when the children are old enough, a discussion can be had about other arrangements. It's written plain, page after page, and it lays out the next eighteen years in numbered paragraphs.

I read the whole thing through without stopping. The attorney calls that afternoon.

"You can ask for more than this. Most men in your situation do."

"No. I trust her, and honestly, I can't promise more than this."

A pause on her end, and papers moving.

"You sure? Once it's entered, it's harder to move later."

"Send it."

I sign every page where the little flags are, and I don't change a word, because Mackie asked for an attorney and a clean schedule, and this is the clean schedule. I put it back in the envelope she sent for it and drive it to the box at the end of the lane and put the flag up.

That night I call her. It rings, but she never answers. She doesn't call back.

Within the hour, my phone buzzes on the table. Her text is short, and it's polite.

Hi Carson. I hope you're well. You're welcome to contact me about any questions regarding Graham and Hildie, or to set up time with them. I'll always arrange it. Please respect my boundaries that I don't want to talk about anything else.

There's nothing mean in it. I read it twice. It's polite and matter-of-fact all the way through. I start typing back. I get a few words in, look at what I've written, and hold my thumb on the key until it's all gone.

Yes ma'am.

That's the rule now. I can follow a rule.

Tuesday, she keeps her word. Six her time, four mine. The screen lights up, and it's Lis holding the phone close, her glasses down on the chain.

Mackie isn't on it.

"There he is," Lis says. She turns the phone. "He's on his back kicking. Hildie's out cold, and I'm not waking her. Say hi to your daddy, mister personality."

Graham's face fills the screen. It's a little close and blurry at first. A fist goes into his mouth. He's bigger than the last time I saw him, and his hair's come in darker.

"He's looking right at you. Say something."

"Hey, bud." I get a little choked up, so I clear my throat and blink a few times.

He doesn't know what a screen is. He looks past it at a light or a shape. Lis coos at him in baby talk and tells me what he had for supper and how Hildie sleeps with her arm thrown up over her head.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him."

Lis laughs. "He's two months old, Carson. Your material can be weak."

"Good."

Eleven minutes. Then Lis says they're tired, and I say thank you. And just like that, the call ends.

I sit in my truck in my own yard with the engine off. There's another one Saturday.