Disturbed, he began cleaning and straightening about the place. Finally, he went out to the shed and set to work assembling the unit he had brought with him.

It was on toward evening, his labors long finished, when he heard the sound of the approaching wagon. He departed the house, which he had set back in order, and awaited the vehicle's arrival.

He saw Marakas drive up to the barn and begin unhitching the team. He walked over to assist him.

"Dad..."he said. "Hello."

Marakas turned and stared at him. His expression remained blank for an instant too long. During that instant, it struck Mark what had troubled him about his father's movements, his reaction time: he was more than a little drunk.

"Mark," he said then, recognition spreading across his face. He stook a small step forward. "You've been gone. Over a year. A year and a half... Almost two. What--happened? Where have you been?"

"It's a long story. Here, let me help with that."

He took over the unhitching of the team, the rubbing down of the horses in their stalls, their feeding.

"... So, when they destroyed my wagon, I had to leave. I was--afraid. I headed south."

He barred the barn door. The sun was just losing its final edge.

"But so long, Mark... You never sent us word or anything," Marakas said.

"I couldn't. How's--how's mother?"

Marakas looked away and did not reply. Finally, he pointed toward a small orchard.

"Over there," he said at last.

After a time, Mark asked, "How'd it happen?"

"In her sleep. It wasn't bad for her. Come on."

They walked toward the orchard. Mark saw the small, rocked-over grave, a part of the shadows and rootwork near one of the larger trees. He halted beside it, looking down.