Dogwoods and Two Grand Lies

The dogwoods are blooming along the edge of the great lawn, dark pink and brilliant white. Below the hill, Brush Creek runs slow and clear past the parkway that shares its name. Beyond, Spanish mission buildings catch the morning sun.

Saturday in April.

The collie comes loping back up the slope. She drops the ball at his feet and barks and backs up, ready.

“What’s her name?”

The girl from the diner stands at the edge of the grass in a light sweater, holding two coffees. She hands him one.

“Penny.”

“You said you bring her out here on weekends.” She sits down on the grass. “So I figured Saturday.”

He throws the ball. Penny goes.

She has brought a stack of index cards, rubber-banded, thick as a fist. Names of bones on one side, in her small neat writing.

“You mentioned school.” he says. “What classes are you taking?”

“Medical school. UMKC.”

He looks at her. “Medical school?”