He kept thinking of his hallucination. Of Duffy devouring ice cream and thinking about the cruelty of men. The headaches were diminishing, so he assumed he wouldn't be bothered further by such deliriums, but the conversation stayed with him. "Rebuild?" he wanted to ask Vince. "Why?"

"He kept his doubts to himself, however. Put a brave face on things, he even managed a smile or two. But when Vince headed off to get some beer, he immediately ceased digging and sat with his back to the rubble, staring down the canyon.

Where had Duffy gone this time? he wondered. Back where he'd gone before, up onto Mullholland?

Without really thinking about what he was doing, he got up and started to walk. The thought of searching for Duffy was only a vague notion in the back of his head, but the further he got from his house, the more focused that ambition came. If he could just find his dog, it would be a sign that that life was not beyond reclamation. he would rebuild it with stronger foundations.

There were scenes of devastation everywhere--houses he had yearned to own obliterated, swimming pools upended, cars crushed-- but once he got onto the ridge the air was clear and finer than he remembered it.

He walked for maybe a quarter-mile, until he reached a spot where the bushes at the side of the road had been trampled. Curious, he turned off the asphalt and onto the dirt, following the muddied ground towards a spot concealed from human eyes by a wall of trees.

Even before he reached the grove itself, an absurd suspicion began to make the hairs on his neck prickle. The ground had not been churned up by human feet. Animals had been here, in considerable numbers. Nor had they come from a single direction. Paths had been beaten to this place from every conceivable compass point.

He wanted to turn and run, but curiosity overruled his fear. With his heart thumping in his temples, he slipped between the trees.

The grove was deserted. But there was evidence that an extraordinary congregation had gathered here. Hoof marks and paw marks in the churned dirt, feathers and fur flitting about, splashes and pellets and mounds of excrement spread all around.

And in the middle of the grove, a crack in the earth. Tenatively, he approached it. There was no smoke. The ground was still and cold. Whatever miracle had been here--if any-- it had passed.

Or had it? He caught a motion from the corner of his eye, and glancing round saw Duffy appear from between the trees.

"So..." he said to the dog. "It was all true."

At the sound of his master's voice, Duffy came pounding over, jumping up at Ralph's face to lick him.

"Duffy," Ralph said. "Are you listening to me? I said I believe you."

Duffy just barked and ran in circles.

"Speak to me, damn you!" Ralph hollered.

The dog barked again, his tail wagging furiously. Then he was away, out of the cool of the grove, glancing back over his shoulder to see if his master was following.

Ralph took one last look at the crack below him, then followed the dog out into the sun, stepping in a dozen different kinds of excrement on the way.

Duffy was still cavorting and barking, and did not let up all the way back to the house. Ralph kept listening, hoping to hear a recognizable phrase (even a word) somewhere in the din. But all he heard was the dog's bliss at being alive and back with the creature that fed him.

That didn't answer any of his questions, of course.

But Duffy's joyful mood was contagious. By the time they came in sight of the rubble, Ralph was already planning the house that would one day replace it.

He would not, however, waste his heart loving it, he decided, in case the vote had gone badly and the animal running ahead of him was pretending simple doghood to keep his master from despair.