I put on my robe, went to the kitchen and opened the back door. “Duff?” I called.

One of the two seemed to be Duff, the other could have been a woman. They were standing close together facing each other. The one I took to be Duff was taller and leaning toward the other as though listening. The second person was stockier, heavier. Could it be Mrs. Reddy?

Now the moon was clouded again and I could barely see the barn. I was frightened, but I told myself that this was the country. Nothing bad could happen in the country. I walked toward the barn, continuing to call Duff, but when I reached it the people were gone. I couldn’t make myself open the door and look inside. Instead I ran back to the kitchen, slammed and bolted the door and stood there trembling for several minutes.

When I could manage to move again I went upstairs, thankful for the light in the upstairs hallway. We had been leaving it on at night since Jack’s accident. Franny’s door was closed, but Duff’s was open. He was in bed.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” he asked drowsily when I entered the room.

“When did you come in?” I demanded.

“Hours ago. I didn’t want to wake you.”

I pulled back his blanket. He was wearing pajamas.

“All right, go back to sleep,” I said.

“You didn’t ask me about Dad,” he said in a whining tone.

“How was Dad?”

“Fine. Eager to get out of the hospital naturally. He also said he’d like us to get Stephanie Weber to nurse him here.”

“We won’t talk about that now.”

He grinned. “Why did you look to see if I was wearing pajamas. You know I don’t go to bed with my day clothes on.”

“You used to sometimes when you were a little boy,” I said. “Good night, Duff.”

I went back downstairs. Could I have been wrong about his being in the yard? Of course he could have come in the front door while I was in the kitchen. (I checked and the front door wasn’t locked.) But then who were the people? And if one was Mrs. Reddy, what was she doing in our yard at two in the morning?

At breakfast, Duff was chipper and much more talkative than he had ever been at similar times at home. I was waiting for him to mention Stephanie Weber again, but he didn’t. Instead Jack brought up her name when he telephoned us. He said that Dr. Fowler had told him he could leave the hospital at the end of the week.

“Couldn’t we possibly go home, Jack?”

“When I get the cast off. That’s supposed to be in four or five weeks.”

“Any good orthopedic man in New York can take off a cast.”

“I’d rather have Dr. Vincent do it, since he put it on.”