For the next mile or so, Anna played catch-up, foraging for the delicious dark purple berries then trotting to catch up, pack slamming down on hip and knee joints that weren't nearly so forgiving as they once had been.

Joan couldn't resist a few berries herself but took her responsibilities to her job more seriously than those to her immortal berry-loving soul.

The Van Slyke kid had gone about his berrying with zeal till Anna gave into the temptation to muse aloud as to whether bears would find huckleberry breath an irresistible enticement. For that she earned an exasperated look from Joan Rand and Rory's share of the berries.

When they crossed Kipp Creek, glittering over stones of vivid red, green and gold-not the murky, brown, cottonmouth creeks that prevailed in Anna's new home in the south-interest in berries gave way to interest in breathing.

Unbeknownst to him, Rory got some of his own back. He was stronger than he looked. And younger than some of Anna's towels. On the climb, much of it on an exposed southwest-facing mountainside, the sun proved its strength. After a mile Anna was hurting. Sweat poured into her eyes. Lungs pumped and burned. Breath sawed through a mouth dry from hanging open gasping for air like a landed trout.

Periodically Joan called a rest stop in the shade offered by the occasional towering white pine. For this Anna could have kissed her feet had she not known that if she did so, she'd never get up again. During these brief respites, Anna swatted deerflies obsessed with the backs of her thighs and split her concentration between enjoying the view and hiding her physical weakness from her compatriots.