I looked down at the trampled snow. I didn’t know what to say, what to do.

Ezra’s teeth chattered. “I told my father, if anything ever went wrong, if there was ever an accident, it would be his fault. For accepting nuclear money, for accepting nuclear risk. It would be his fault. I never really thought—”

Ezra’s chin trembled and he put his hand up to hide it. “I told him, if anything ever went wrong, he’d burn in hell because of it.”

Ezra was silent a moment.

“The night of the accident, my father—he helped so many people—got them out of the plant. He kept going in, soaking up more radiation.

“Even after he couldn’t stand up straight, stumbling, throwing up, he wanted to go back. If I hadn’t said those things to him—Nyle, if I hadn’t said—he might have walked away. Some guys on duty that night—they walked away. Ran away. My father might still be alive.”

Staring across at the snow-covered hills, I made myself keep breathing and just listened.

“I sat by his bed—watched him. I needed to talk to him, needed to say—” Ezra’s arms crossed over his chest. “His skin so awful—scabbed and bubbled—like leather. He said nothing. I waited. Then one day he spoke. Not to me, to Mother. ‘Miriam,’ he said. ‘Miriam.’ And then he died.”

I took a deep breath. The cold ached in my throat.

“Did you ever think he kept going back inside the plant because he felt responsible for the people in there?” I asked.

Ezra looked across the field and shrugged.

“Ezra, what he did at the plant that night might have had nothing to do with you.”

Ezra rubbed his eyes with his hand. “The fact is, Nyle, no matter what, I can’t take back what I said. I’d always put the blame on him, but I wore the clothes nuclear money paid for, I ate the food. I lived in the house.”

“Ezra—”

“When I was so sick with radiation, I thought I saw my father. I tried catching up to him. He stood right in front of me. I put my hand on his shoulder. His skin came away in my fingers.”

“No, Ezra.”

I took Ezra’s wrists in my hands and stared into his face. Then slowly, slowly, I wrapped my arms around him. He lowered his head onto my shoulder. I took off my glove and touched him. My fingers whispered over Gramp’s coat, over Ezra’s back.

“The hardest part is letting go,” I said.

Ezra was weeping. Maybe for the first time, weeping.

“You are like the phoenix, Ezra,” I said. “You have to rise up out of all this mess and start again.” I didn’t want him to leave, but I understood now that he had to. “Fly away, Ezra,” I said. “Fly away and start again.”

Twenty-Two

Ezra, and I headed toward the farmhouse. He kept his eyes lowered, but he reached over and held my hand.

I felt connected to Ezra in some way I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time, and though I liked it, really liked it, deep inside I sensed its danger.