He had not seen anyone.

At the shack, he had taken a sponge bath with springwater heated on the stove, using the rosemary soap, and had shaved his growth of whiskers. It was not the bath he wanted—not the lake bath—but it was better than being seen by a late visitor satisfying curiosity. And then he had made coffee and a small amount of grits and had taken his meal at the table, with the door of the shack open to the porch. From his place at the table, he had watched the sun seep into the trees on the western hill overlooking the lake, throwing shadows across the water.

He was making a bundle of his clothes for washing—those he had changed out of after going into the lake for Matthew—when he heard Eleanor’s voice from near the porch, calling his name.

She had with her two pieces of fried chicken and three biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin. The chicken and biscuits had come from the overheaped table at Ada Reynolds’s home, she said. So much food, it was being shared by the helpers and she had taken some for herself, but had already eaten more than she wanted. She was that way with food, she told him. If she was around it for any length of time, she lost her taste for it, and she had spent the day with the other women of the valley keeping the serving table full.

“I don’t know why I brought any of it home, to be honest,” she said, “but I did, and then I got to thinking that you got away without having anything to eat at all, and you’d probably wind up with some crackers, or something, so I thought I’d force some of this off on you.”

She knew she was talking in chatter, in a river of words, but could not help it. She had caught him again by surprise and had seen in his bewildered expression a kind of trapped look. Talking, and being busy, kept the look cornered.

“Anyway, I needed to get out,” she continued, taking a plate from the pie safe and putting the food on it and handing it to him. “Just to walk off some of the strain of the day, I think.” She looked at him, flashed a smile. “I can smell coffee. Do you have enough for an extra cup?”

“I do,” he answered softly, holding the plate, wondering if he should tell her he had already had grits.

“Then I’m going to impose on you again,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and eat. I’ll get it. Where’s your cup?”

He glanced at the table, to the cup.

“Oh, I see it,” she said. “Do you need some?”

“No,” he said. “I just poured it.”

“Sit,” she said again. “Eat.”

He sat at the table, watched her go to the pie safe and take a cup and then cross to the stove and pour coffee into it, talking as she moved about.