“I don’t know. We’re trying to find out. I sent a sample to a company in the U.S. for analysis. But they said it got contaminated, so I have to send another. Except it seems to be missing. We’re still looking. I’m sorry for the news, Abby.”

Abby pressed her palms against her eyes and gathered herself. She finally spoke. “And the chief? Have you been able to bury him?”

“Oh. Abby, I apologize. I forgot about the chief. I’ll check on that today and make sure it happens.”

Abby gave a weak smile. “Thanks.” She hesitated, not knowing what else to say. “Well, shall I contact you about my flight in a few days?”

“That would be fine.”

“I can’t wait to be back in Papua New Guinea. Thanks again for opening your place to me.”

“You’re welcome. I look forward to it.”

They disconnected. Sabin leaned forward. “I’m sorry for the news, Abby. That sounds horrible.”

Abby sighed deeply. “At least…at least it’s over now. For all of them.” She looked at him and shook her head, puzzled. “Sabin, there was something wrong with Kate.”

Two days later Hutch stood looking down into the casket of Thomas Hardin, his father. He had known for years that Thomas would die prematurely. One couldn’t live the way his father had and last to a hundred and twenty. Or even a hundred, for that matter.

“He looks so peaceful,” the people would say tomorrow. Truth was, he looked antiseptic and smelled that way too—the same smell he had every Sunday during Hutch’s youth after he shaved, splashed himself with Old Spice, and put on a starched white shirt and a tie for church. “God doesn’t countenance sloppy dressers,” his father would say.

He had reeked of aftershave the morning he took Hutch’s pirate set. “We’re leaving, Hutch. What’s your toy, Hutch? You have to tithe a toy today for the gift boxes.” Hutch looked around his room. He glumly walked over to his dresser and took a Matchbox car off the top. He held it out for his father.

“What’s this?”

“A Matchbox car,” he said.

“One little car? You think this gift is good enough?”

His father tossed it into a trash can.

“Daddy!” Hutch retrieved the car. He looked around the room and held back his tears. “Why does God want my stuff, anyway? Didn’t he give it to me so I could enjoy it?”

“You selfish…” His father loomed over him with his hand pulled back, ready to strike.

“Daddy! Please!”

“How dare you talk about God that way. He wants our best. You can’t even give him your worst.” He lowered his hand and scanned the room. “It’s time you learn that lesson.” He started picking up pieces of Hutch’s pirate set—ship, fortress, and men—and placing them in a large plastic bin.