A long silence.

BERRY-BERRY: “Are you Annabel?”

THE WOMAN: “That’s right, baby; I’m Annabel.”

Annabel? Does he think she’s Annabel?

Don’t think. Don’t think.

But he thinks she’s Anna . . .

Don’t think! Thoughts make fear, fear makes noise, noise makes trouble. Ss-shh. Listen. Wait.

BERRY-BERRY: “We shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t be here.”

THE WOMAN: “You want me to go?”

BERRY-BERRY: “No! Stay!”

THE WOMAN: “Let go, baby. I mean it. You’re hurtin’ me.

Movements on the bed. Violent motion. Heavy breathing. A sudden hard slap. The woman’s voice, loud, heavy with anger: “I’ll kill—you sonofabitch! I swear, I’ll kill!” Another impact of fist against flesh, this time harder. Berry-berry groaning with pain.

THE WOMAN: “You sorry sonofabitch. Now lay there and die, will you do that for me? You sorry, sorry bastard?”

The woman stands for a moment at the bedside, breathing heavily, then turns quickly to the door, and goes out, slamming it behind her. Footsteps on the stairs, and on the first floor. The front door opening, closing. Silence. The motor starting, the truck backing up the driveway.

What’s wrong with Berry-berry? What did she do to him?

Keep your seat. Listen. Hear him breathing? Quick, hysterical breaths. Now he’s sobbing.

And now he’s crying.

She made him cry.

Berry-berry?

Crying?

Crying, yes.

Clinton shuddered from head to foot, every inch of him, inside and out. And this sudden violent activity of his body was like a death rattle.

In this instant, with no motion other than this profound spasm, he felt himself transported to some high place, far above the house. This high place was not even a cloud, as one might travel to in imagination or in a dream. Nor was it any place at all: it was simply distance, suspension, a view: and it was terrifying to be there.

Far below, on the ground, in the midst of an orchard so large that it extended all the way to the sides of the earth, sat Berry-berry’s tiny and fragile house. In the surrounding trees of this vast orchard, perched high on all the naked limbs, were tens of thousands of people, all children, and all singing. —All of the people he knew or had ever known were in these branches, and he recognized them, even Annabel and Ralph, but now they were child-people. Each person, of these tens of thousands, sang his individual song, each one separate, different; and it was impossible to make out the words or melodies. Heard from so great a height, all of them together made one sound that was like the wind. But then the wind itself came along, and it made no sound at all. It crept in from all sides, invisible and silent. Clinton knew there was no way to warn anyone of the approach of a menace that could neither be seen nor heard; therefore he had no choice but to witness whatever might take place. So the wind blew, and it blew with such force that all the branches of all the trees, even the highest ones, began to shake so violently that all of the tiny singers were blown away. The branches were bare and silent again and there were no children left in the world.