The death of Chief Medeiros's son was too appalling to discuss. The storm had moved on to the southwest and was now only a distant flicker and rumble in the evening sky. Domingo drove by way of Vineyard Haven. The power was still off and houses and shops were dark; the few streetlights that marked the intersections were out. They passed white ComElectric trucks parked by the side of the road. Workers in hard hats conferred with one another, looked up at transformers, pointed to lines. “I must say, it's pleasant with the electricity off,” Victoria said. “I wouldn't mind if they didn't get it back on for a few days. There's too much light pollution.” As they drove up the hill to Tisbury Meadow, branches and leaves littered the road. They crossed a wash of sand and gravel, dodging foot-ball size rocks. Near the Chicama Vineyards road, they moved over into the oncoming lane because a downed tree blocked their way. The sun settled behind the receding storm clouds, and brilliant rays shot high into the clear sky.
