It had been a wet winter, and every patch of unshaded ground was covered with emerald grass and yellow wildflowers. Fruit trees in rural yards had begun to flower. If indeed Galen Nelson failed to appreciate these visual riches, it was a shame. It was growing dark by the time I reached the woods, but I could still make out twiggy plants with hot pink blossoms, madrone shoots hung with bell-shaped buds, and profuse ground covers dotted with flowers. I stepped into Edward’s cabin with the last of the twilight glowing behind a tall horizon of ragged treetops. There were no lights burning in the cabin. “Arthur?” My voice squeaked with worry. “Are you here?” I clicked on the bare bulb, casting the shack into stark light. There was no sign of anything having been moved since I’d left. A dishcloth hung over the faucet, cups were upside down on a towel beside the sink, a broom was propped in the corner, the sleeping bags were rolled up, the table was wiped down. I’d felt a little like Snow White doing chores I often ignored at home.
