Maude talked of going birding in the morning, yet she was not an early riser. She would wake at 10:00 or so, drink coffee with a pastry (carried up by Sam or Helen, who came out of their post-rodeo funk to argue over who won the honor), bathe, and have lunch with distant relations. Sam and Helen would fetch the right pillows for the right chair, find her glasses, haul her huge purse between points A and B. Maude arrived with a stash of Bicentennial coins that she called silver dollars and doled out spottily. Sam thought they were insanely valuable, but Ned looked them up and found they were worth $1.38.

Lunches would be followed by a nap, more coffee, another outing.

Maude was therefore not awake when her grandson Harry arrived to pick up Ned for a day on the hill at the Poor Farm. The river was full of searchers from other counties, and Harry had possession of a rented portable ground-penetrating radar machine for only another three days. He needed to return to the dig.

Ned was still in the shower. Polly wanted to go with them. She wanted to dig far from the river, the kitchen, people she loved.

“Nothing is where it’s supposed to be,” said Harry, looking into the refrigerator for half-and-half. “So far, beyond that first grave site, a building foundation, an orchard.”

“What else is there to worry about?”

“More dead people,” said Harry. “Frankly.”

The dogs and the children were at the front window, staring at something. Polly checked and saw Graham standing awkwardly on the sidewalk.

“Should I ask him in?”

“Not on my behalf,” said Harry, blowing on his mug. “I asked if he wanted coffee and he said he had no addictions, which annoyed me, and so I left him out there.”

Polly went out. “Hey,” she said. “You got rid of your eye bandage.”

“I had to walk to the clinic to get my eye checked,” said Graham.

“Any lasting damage?” asked Polly.

“I think there is. It still hurts.”

She wanted to say, Don’t you feel lucky? Aren’t you stunned that you’re alive? Aren’t you underwater in a different way, drowning in grief? Aren’t you at least a little guilty to still be breathing? Both eyes were clear, the whites without a hint of bloodshot, Graham’s face without a hint of expression. His scratches were scabbing over. “Why don’t you have a car, anyway?”

“I was in an accident,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t say it as a plea for kindness. It was a shutdown, a Fuck you, Mom line.

“Harry won’t be long,” said Polly, deciding not to offer him anything. She walked back toward her house. Her children, who hadn’t budged from the porch, were staring at Graham like ghost children planning his death. Even the dogs hadn’t greeted him.