It was quiet then except for glass shards still falling. The mother was dead, the young boy, too, and the one they’d come for was still alive. Luria and Dworkin were in the shadows. He couldn’t see their faces but he heard Dworkin panting, like he’d been running. Then Luria hissed, “There!”

The big boy was at the top of his stairs in his underwear. His arms and legs were long and skinny, his hands and feet were too big for them. Levy sobbed. If the boy ran back he had a chance; he could get out a bedroom window, shinny down a pipe, trellis, anything. Run away, hide in the woods. But the boy saw the broken door, the fog and path outside, and he ran for it. Levy rocked against the wall. The boy was so fast, so agile, Levy thought he’d make it. But his bare feet skidded in his brother’s blood. He fell.

The football crowd screamed, and Levy turned off the set with shaking fingers. His face was reflected in the blank screen, soft and leprous looking. What battle? he asked his reflection. You killed a mother and little boy. He heard Luria again: How many mothers and little boys died around us? A thousand, a million . . .

He heard another car pull into the street and he ran to the window, but the car kept going and he was suddenly sure that Rachel was never coming back. He raced up the stairs to her room and pulled open her closet door. Her slacks, blouses, skirts hung undisturbed. He opened her dresser drawers. Everything was intact there, too.

Rachel passed Ronkonkoma. The road was empty, the houses were dark. Leah slept in her car seat and Rachel was alone.

At first Hawkins didn’t believe she was going back. When he saw that she was, he started arguing. She didn’t even hear what he said and she went on packing Leah’s food and the Pampers in the tote bag. He grabbed her arm and she stopped moving. She was so tired, she longed to lie down somewhere. Even the floor would do. She closed her eyes and swayed slightly and he put his arms around her. She leaned against him and imagined making love to him on the floor next to the coffee table with her daughter watching gravely from the couch.

His arms tightened around her. “You can’t go back there,” he whispered to her.

“I have to,” she said.

“Why?”

She eased herself away from him. “Because he’s an old man and I can’t leave him alone there,” she said wearily. “Because they stole his food, his shoe, and he walked barefoot with splinters in his feet.” She looked at him. “What if he’s worried sick about us? What if he can’t sleep?”