Wolf looked up and said, “Hey, Ed. I’ve been meaning to tell you what a fine job you’ve been doing. Good for you.”

“Thanks, Lee,” he said. “Folks have been nice.” It occurred to him that he had never in his life referred to a group of people as “folks.” He’d been born in Worcester, Massachusetts. But the Swift Sword people’s way of talking was as contagious as prison talk.

After dinner and the evening meeting he went back to the storage building where he and Lonny Mann slept. They had divided the place in half after the other three were killed, because sleeping in close quarters was like prison, and space was a luxury. Each man had a bunk with a blanket and pillow, placed near the door at one end of the rectangular building so he could go out his own door to the nearest outhouse. Ed lay still in his bunk and listened to Lonny Mann’s breathing.

He waited while it slowed down, and then while it turned into a snore. He used some of the time after that rolling his blanket into a torso, stuffing it into a T-shirt and jeans, and then covering it with a spare blanket. At 11:30 p.m. he went out and around the back of the storage building and into the woods.

Ed made a wide circle around the meadow where the community houses stood and emerged from the woods behind Charlotte Carpenter’s house at 11:37.

The rear window was four panes fitted like double doors with hinges and a latch. He was sure that was because the group hadn’t had skilled carpenters who could have installed sliding windows with sash weights. This kind of window was quieter, so he was glad. The window swung open inward and he followed it, climbing over the sill into a dark room. All he could tell about the space was that it was small and square, not a bedroom, but something else.

The window swung shut, and a graceful hand latched it again. She stepped into him. Her body pressed against his, and his arms automatically encircled her. She was naked.

She said, “Don’t be shy, hon. Take them off. I’ve been looking forward to this.”