And every night he asked me to read the paper, the Rovato Daily News, just the parts about the plane crash. I did, despite the fact that Mother had forbidden it. She didn’t like my going to his room at all. She said, “If we stay away, maybe he’ll take a bath.” That was all she had to say concerning my father. For a week he’d barely eaten enough to keep a chicken alive; now he ate everything I brought him and asked for more: biscuits and honey, bacon and runny eggs that dribbled down his chin, pork chops and gravy and heaps of mashed potatoes. It seemed he thought it was his duty to eat enough for himself and for that boy from the plane who might be lost in the hills above Moon Lake. Three days passed, and the divers still hadn’t found a trace of the plane. This confirmed Father’s old fear of Moon Lake, and his belief that there were trenches so deep a man might never be found. But on the fourth day the Rovato Daily News printed a strange letter that made Daddy weep until he heaved.
