She returned to find that Walter had built a small stone pit near the lake’s edge and on one of the stones was an open can of sardines, a loaf of bread, slices of onion on a leaf. He was gathering kindling wood. The expression of concentrated effort made him look young. He’d given himself over to it. He looked at her blankly as he picked up the coffeepot, then smiled out of his absorption, and she caught a glimpse of an earlier Walter, the promise of the years of his life ahead of him, in the swing of his own youth and strength. It was odd that time had merely smoothed out his face. Here, making a tent of twigs, blowing on the smoke, triumphant as the flame caught, his smile was artless.

After they had eaten, they sat with their backs against a tree trunk and threw pebbles into the lake. Warmed by the sun, halfasleep, they hardly spoke. Once Walter took her hand and waved it toward the other side of the lake, where she saw the lumpy brown shape of a small bear as it made its way through the trees. Later, they took a walk and she tried to memorize the names of the plants and birds which Walter pointed out, but her mind refused to record, confounded perhaps by the reckless profusion of wildlife around them and partly by her surprise at Walter’s special learning.

They ate an early supper. It had grown cooler. They roasted potatoes in the fire and broke them in half in their jiggling fingers. Night settled in gently, an emanation, a breath from the forest. They warmed their knees at the stone hearth and drank black coffee from Uncle George’s chipped enamel cups.

In all the five days they spent in the valley, neither of them spoke of the months that stretched between the time of the bus station where Walter had left her that night and the moment she had stood on the wooden stoop and looked down at him in Laguna Beach. This time they spent was out of time—even the disagreeable parting from Uncle George was forgotten.

In the valley, they lived without memory.