At length he stood up and made his way to the outskirts of the village, where Abbey Street met the Hastings Road. He was only slightly tipsy, he told himself. He had to rise at half past four in the morning to milk the cows, but this anniversary was more important than duty. The hole in his chest was just a rough and ugly scar now, but it sometimes ached, as if it hadn't healed. Four years. The flesh had surely forgot the pain and the terror and the weakness from loss of blood. But the mind hadn't. The mind never forgot. And so he tried to drink himself into oblivion.

He never quite got there.

He tripped on a stone, recovered his balance, and walked on. The farm was barely a mile away, but tonight the road seemed twice as long. Overhead the stars were so bright he felt he could hear them. His grandfather always said to him when he was a lad, "Listen to the stars, Willie. Can you hear them? Just listen."

And he would listen, over the ordinary night sounds of rats in the feed bins or a stoat hunting in the hedgerow, a horse moving in its stall. He could have sworn he heard them.

A stone rattled on the road behind him, and he turned to see what was there. Nothing but his imagination. At this hour of the night, he had the road to himself.

His mind was clouded with the beer he'd drunk. His wife would have something to say about that. He shook his head to clear it, but it was no use.

He tripped again, and swore.

A voice quietly called his name. Jeffers whirled to see who it was, peering through the darkness, but for the life of him he couldn't bring the pale face into focus.

"Do I know you?" he asked after a moment.

"You did. Once."

"Sorry. I don't remember."