We stopped at a gas station in Reading, and I got a hot dog with mustard and a bag of potato chips. Wilson drank chocolate milk through a straw. By the time we hit 23, it was almost dark. We pulled into the driveway. There was a Datsun parked in it.

“Jack Griffith’s here. Will you come in with me? And let me carry the helmet? Just for effect. And try to act normal.”

“Yeah, with your rubber boots from Ireland, your corduroy, and all the dust, you look really biker chic.”

We went in through the rec room door, and Thomas and Jack were sitting there. Even though they’d never talked about what had happened, Thomas and Wilson had some understanding since that night, and I could see Thomas’s face brighten when he saw him. Jack mumbled a hello to both of us, and we said hey back.

“Wilson!” Thomas said. “You feeling any better? Is the chest tube out?” He looked at me then. “Where’ve you guys been? What’s with the Wellies in July?”

Wilson acted right at home. He sat down on the couch opposite Jack’s chair, and I plopped down next to him and heard him suck in his breath. I kept forgetting the broken ribs. We were both holding our helmets.

“We went up toward Bucks Run and Centralia,” Wilson said, “out beyond Reading, looking at some of the strip mines—you know, for Libby’s tree research.” He made it sound like I was a graduate student. I told them about the strip mining, the strange earth like a moonscape, how despairing it felt there.

“What happened to your hair?” Jack asked me. We all looked at him.

“That’s a bit of a non sequitur,” I said.

I could feel Wilson smile.

I looked directly at Jack, and it wasn’t hard, and I didn’t feel embarrassed about anything that had happened. Thomas interrupted and asked more questions about the strip mine, the kinds of explosives, the risk of floods and landslides if there were miles of no vegetation. He asked Wilson if he would take him up.

“Yeah, I will. Maybe next week,” said Wilson. His voice was getting even harder to understand through his closed lips, and I looked at him and could see how exhausted he was.

“You should go home to bed and stop talking,” I said.

“I will.” He stood up, and I said I would walk out with him. On the driveway, I strapped the helmet to the seat back.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Glad to be of service. Again.”

I laughed. He was pale and tired, and I knew he was in pain. I held his shoulders for a quick moment. “No, really—thanks. Like, for everything.”