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"Yeah, yeah." PJ plopped himself down at the table and picked up the newspaper Ivy had laid out. It was in tatters, because Ivy had cut it up for him before he'd even arrived at her house. PJ wanted to read the news, stay up to date, but he loved animals and children—they were the jewels of the world— and he did not want to hear about bad things happening to them. He was too sensitive. His heart couldn't take it. He'd already had three heart attacks. A fourth might be the one to do it.

So, every morning, after the second heart attack, Ivy had cut up the paper, took out the cruelty to animals or children. She did this back when they lived in the same house together and continued even after she gave up on their marriage and moved out. At first, after she'd left him, Ivy would leave the chopped-up newspaper on his doorstep, but eventually she'd invited PJ over to the house on the pond for breakfast. She still loved PJ, in a different way from before, but she did love him. She wanted him to be all right.

That first breakfast was seven years ago, and now, every morning, PJ took a seat in the clean, yellow-floral-wallpapered kitchen with Ivy and her boyfriend. Ivy would make cinnamon buns or omelets, scones or pancakes, a frittata once in a while. No bacon for PJ, because PJ had accidentally read an article about the factory farming of pigs once, because sometimes Ivy didn't get all the bad news. There was so much of it, bad news, in the paper. She was bound to make mistakes, there was always something she missed.

It was turkey bacon only for Fred, always following a heart-healthy diet. Fred also didn't drink. He exercised. He was a lover of wildlife. A big reader. He was the first Black judge to win the prestigious Noble and Fair Justice Award, and he was known for giving second chances to people who deserved them. He never lost his cool. PJ had tried to hate Fred for stealing his wife, but it wasn't easy to hate Fred, even if he was a dweeb much of the time, always pointing out woodpeckers and titmice, never making dirty jokes, only sometimes laughing at PJ's. "Ivy's Diner," Fred would call the morning meal, patting his stomach, and he would also clean the kitchen afterward, clear the plates and fill the dishwasher and wipe down the counters.

"Apple polisher," PJ would call him, but Fred didn't mind. He did like Ivy's apples and wanted to polish them.

That morning, their last breakfast together before Alaska, Ivy had cut a huge hole in the front page of both newspapers. They had two papers delivered every morning: one for PJ, one for Fred and Ivy to share. They were keeping The South Coast Daily Sun in business; most people had made the switch to The Boston Globe, or even The New York Times, but PJ was resistant to change, and Ivy catered to him. She hardly ever cut up both papers, though, so whatever the front-page news was that morning, it was something extremely upsetting. PJ tried not to think how bad it could be, but imagined Fred and Ivy must have been discussing it before he arrived, and maybe that was why Ivy hadn't made much of a spread. It was simple scrambled eggs and toast, but when PJ took a bite, he found the bread buttered to perfection. PJ reminded himself not to underestimate the simple things. "I hope you always appreciate what you have there," he told Fred, pointing to Ivy puttering around the kitchen.

"I do appreciate her, of course I do," Fred said. "Anyone can see I appreciate her."

"Do you appreciate me, PJ?" Ivy asked, turning around to face her ex- husband. "Because I sometimes wonder."

"I haven't had sex with another woman since you left me. Not once in eight years. How is that not appreciation?"

Ivy laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Okay, fine. Me and Francie Hubble had our thing."

"What about Patricia?"

"Who's that?"

"The woman who owns the Nifty Gifts."

"Oh. Well, yes. A few times. I didn't know you were keeping tabs."

"Will you two stop flirting," Fred said. "I'm right here."

"Jesus Christ, Fred," Ivy said. "No one's flirting."

"I'm always flirting," PJ said. "I'll win her back, someday. You'll see. Maybe once she gets tired of your performance problems in the bedroom." PJ had seen the Viagra in Fred's bedside drawers, one day when he was snooping around upstairs.

"Ha," Ivy said. "Pot calling kettle."

"That's enough of that," Fred said. "But you make a good point, PJ, we should appreciate each other. That's what this trip is about: appreciation. Appreciation for each other, and a new adventure. And birds, of course. New birds to see."

"Here's to adventure then. And birds," PJ said, lifting his glass of OJ, even though he wanted to beg them not to go. They could appreciate each other at home. There were plenty of birds right outside.

"Yes, cheers to birds," Fred said, lifting his coffee cup.