The eggs were expensive as eggs went, but Klay liked to say hello to a person every once in a while, so he stopped by Russell’s place two or three times a month, whether he needed eggs or not. He went the long way to get his gas at Van Guilder’s for the same reason. There was another reason he stopped by Russell’s lately. Russell’s daughter was a doctor in the City, but on her visits home Grace was a farmer’s daughter in mucking boots and overalls. They talked easily. When Grace was working for her father, Klay found it could take half the morning just to pick up a dozen eggs. She had a wonderful smile and she didn’t ask him about his past. He felt like he didn’t have a past in her company. On her most recent visit, she had handed him a piece of paper with his eggs. It was her phone number. This weekend they were planning to go on their first date.

He brought the pump to ten dollars even and went inside Van Guilder’s to pay. He put his money on the counter and weighted it down with a smooth gray river stone resting beside the cash register for that purpose, same as usual. Van Guilder’s Mercantile sold milk, assorted candy bars, motor oil, and fishing and hunting supplies, including three pairs of Wolverine brand work boots in unlikely sizes. A red fox with one paw raised as if to say hello was mounted to a birch branch in the store’s front window, its fur moth-eaten and bleached to a pale yellow. A cardboard “Be Back Soon” clock hung inside the door for when Van Guilder was away. Someone had drawn antlers on the six with a ballpoint pen. Klay hadn’t been to Van Guilder’s during deer season yet, but he was looking forward to the venison stew everybody talked about.

He touched the silent clock on his way out. Capturing time on paper had been his life for so long. Suddenly he recalled the clocks scratching away in the Confession Club. It was remarkable the things that rose unbidden from his mind. The past was not ever dead. It lived with him, bodies and all. If not for Eady, he might still be with Hungry. If not for Eady, he might still be a journalist. Who could tell the impact of that one blood-covered stone tossed into the pond of his life. He did know one thing. The ripples were quieter now that he’d done something about it.

He paused to greet Van Guilder, same as usual.

“See your story got the cover again,” the old man said, nodding toward a news rack. The rack held copies of American Angler, Truck Trader, Guns & Ammo, and a few local papers, along with the New York Times.