Far out in the woods, not marked on the map, down in the ground an old tea canister had rotted away. The tin melted into the humus. The old gold pieces nestled in the soft earth like precious lustrous butter pats.

At night he wept. With both dogs upright beside him, both faces intent upon his as he sat with his hands over his face, the all of him racked up in his throat. Over and over saying, “Poppy, Poppy, Poppy,” the name bubbling out of him. For hours until he was sick, aching, exhausted. Wept even after he realized it was self-pity as much as grief. Until he suddenly and vividly heard his father’s voice commanding him to stop. “Stop it.” Just once. He took his hands from his face and looked around. There was nothing and the sound did not come again, just the echoes of it. He looked at his dogs. They looked back at him.