It was like relighting a fire that had guttered down some, refeeding it with fresh dry fuel, the way she looked at me and spoke to me between normal conversation. And Verne sitting there in the chair in the living room staring at the floor. Now and then he’d shake his head. “She had to go,” Verne said. “It was time she died. She’d expected it herself, and I know I did. It was the way. The way she died. That’s what gets me. She never had a damned thing. Never had any rest, any peace, until she came here. She didn’t know what rest was, or peace. She’d never known.” “Buck up, now,” Petra said. “Take it easy, Verne.” And while she said it, she looked at me, standing there by Verne’s chair, with one hand by his head, looking at me with her eyes, her lips, her whole body. I didn’t say anything, just waited. “And then, when she did come,” Verne said, “when at last she had a chance at some rest, she went deaf. Not that it mattered much. She didn’t seem to mind that.
