“I thought that once an angry and disgusted God poured molten fire from a crucible to destroy or to purify his little handiwork of mud.

“I thought I had inherited both the scars of the fire and the impurities which made the fire necessary—all inherited, I thought. All inherited. Do you feel that way?”

“I think so,” said Cal.

“I don’t know,” Abra said.

Lee shook his head. “That isn’t good enough. That isn’t good enough thinking. Maybe—” And he was silent.

Cal felt the heat of the liquor in his stomach. “Maybe what, Lee?”

“Maybe you’ll come to know that every man in every generation is refired. Does a craftsman, even in his old age, lose his hunger to make a perfect cup—thin, strong, translucent?” He held his cup to the light. “All impurities burned out and ready for a glorious flux, and for that—more fire. And then either the slag heap or, perhaps what no one in the world ever quite gives up, perfection,” He drained his cup and he said loudly, “Cal, listen to me. Can you think that whatever made us—would stop trying?”

“I can’t take it in,” Cal said. “Not now I can’t.”

The heavy steps of the nurse sounded in the living room. She billowed through the door and she looked at Abra, elbows on the table, holding her cheeks between her palms.

The nurse said, “Have you got a pitcher? They get thirsty. I like to keep a pitcher of water handy. You see,” she explained, “they breathe through their mouths.”

“Is he awake?” Lee asked. “There’s a pitcher.”

“Oh, yes, he’s awake and rested. And I’ve washed his face and combed his hair. He’s a good patient. He tried to smile at me.”

Lee stood up. “Come along, Cal. I want you to come too, Abra. You’ll have to come.”

The nurse filled her pitcher at the sink and scurried ahead of them.

When they trooped into the bedroom Adam was propped high on his pillows. His white hands lay palms down on either side of him, and the sinews from knuckle to wrist were tight drawn. His face was waxen, and his sharp features were sharpened. He breathed slowly between pale lips. His blue eyes reflected back the night light focused on his head.

Lee and Cal and Abra stood at the foot of the bed, and Adam’s eyes moved slowly from one face to the other, and his lips moved just a little in greeting.

The nurse said, “There he is. Doesn’t he look nice? He’s my darling. He’s my sugar pie.”

“Hush!” said Lee.

“I won’t have you tiring my patient.”

“Go out of the room,” said Lee.

“I’ll have to report this to the doctor.”

Lee whirled toward her. “Go out of the room and close the door. Go and write your report.”

“I’m not in the habit of taking orders from Chinks.”

Cal said, “Go out now, and close the door.”

She slammed the door just loud enough to register her anger. Adam blinked at the sound.