Looking at the doctor again, she recalled the threatening, windy sky earlier that morning and the wide, straw-strewn fields beside his office. It would be night soon. Frances was weary. Gauzily, she imagined an ideal future in which she would not be tired, but instead surrender at all times to a magical, devouring sleep that would subsume her life’s days entirely.

Would Frances Johnson find a way?

Her sleeplessness weighed on her mind, possibly as a topic to discuss with Palmer, yet there were so many things to discuss. On any given day in Munson following the volcano’s rumblings, townsfolk seemed to grow energetic and enthusiastic—perhaps too enthusiastic—about life: Frances did, too. Did Palmer know? On those days, she, like other folks, would throw open her bedroom window wide to breathe more daytime air, or chatter with the town’s phone operators. She would make careful, excited, detailed plans for home inventions, reading, sewing, and for the boldest project of all—packing and leaving Munson for good. But soon enough, as with other folks too, her energy would falter, and none of the plans would begin, let alone come to fruition.

Palmer was reading from a paperback book on his desk, scratching his ears one at a time.

She blurted, “Palmer, I’ve got to leave Munson.”

He leaned onto his elbows. “Gee! You’d be one of the few. Locals leave Munson just about as frequently as they have parties, eh?”

“Are you saying it would be wrong to go?” She looked at the open door, sensing that someone might be near, listening.

He waved her off. “Of course not! Frances, if you desire this, why, it might be a wise and healthful choice.”

Feeling a glow in her throat, she exhaled a warm, glad breath, and smoothed her hair toward the man flirtatiously. “Oh, that’s a nice thing to say, Palmer . . . but . . . d’you suppose I can make a journey with this scar on my leg?”

“I don’t see why not. You see, the phenomenon is not unfamiliar to me.”

“You recognize the scar?”

He frowned. “I’ve seen it before. They called it, simply, ‘cauliflower’ at the seaside medical college where I trained. Where there’s one case, there’s many.” He turned to the high window. “My, wouldn’t it be nice to sit up there in one of those fruit trees?”

“Palmer! You mean others in town have the same scar as I?”

“Sure, maybe.” The man raised his eyebrows. “Probably lots of cases in Little-Munson, too.”

“But—can it be passed?” She felt frantic.

“Oh, Frances. Yes, some bacteria can leap from one person to another—you know that—remember how this fact was conveyed so beautifully in the old horror movie Friendless? However, in this case—” Palmer removed his glasses.

Frances was on her feet. “Palmer! Did I catch this scar from someone? From—Ray, do you mean to say? Not really!?”

“Oh, be quiet,” he muttered, grasping a pencil in awkward fingers, unwilling to offer reassurance. Frances waited, anxiously glancing up to the window, the smallness of which now seemed absurd.