This day, Janet was finding comfort in that lack of individuality. It meant that she did not have to put herself out to define herself to these people, did not have to expose herself to them or make them understand her. They already knew who she was.

"Are you all right?"

Startled, Janet looked up. She recognized the man as someone to whom she'd been introduced, but as with all the others, she could not put a name to the face.

"Potter. Dr. Charles Potter."

He was, she judged, in his late fifties-maybe his early sixties-and he looked exactly like what he was, a country GP. His hair was white, and his manner was what would once have been described as courtly. And, though she could hardly believe it, he was wearing an ice-cream suit.

"I beg your pardon?" Janet blurted.

"Are you all right?" Potter repeated. "You look a mite peaked."

"I'm fine," Janet assured him, and then realized that the room was much too warm, and she felt flushed. She tried to stand up, and discovered she couldn't. "Well, I guess I'm not all right after all," she said weakly. "How do I look?"

Potter grinned, losing a bit of what Janet was certain was a carefully cultivated image. "As I said, a mite peaked. Which, around here, covers most conditions not covered by 'right fit.' And you certainly don't look right fit." Then, as he continued speaking, his voice turned serious. "Which isn't remarkable, under the circumstances. I said it at the funeral, and I said it earlier this afternoon, but I'll say it again. I'm sorry about Mark. He was a good man."

Janet nodded automatically, suddenly aware of a strange dizziness and a surge of nausea. "I wonder if maybe I ought to lie down," she suggested, and Potter was immediately on his feet, signaling to Amos Hall, who hurried over.

"I think we'd better get her upstairs," Potter said. "It all seems to have been a bit too much for her."

Suddenly everyone in the room seemed to be staring at her. "No-please-I'll be all right, really I will," Janet protested, but Amos, still powerful despite his years, picked her up and carried her up the stairs, Dr. Potter following close behind.

In her room, Amos laid her gently on the bed, then smiled at her. "Doc will have a look at you, and Mama and I'll get rid of the mob downstairs. They all should have left hours ago anyway, but you know how these things are. Doesn't matter that everyone sees everyone else every day of the year. You put them together for whatever reason, and they just keep on talkin'." Then he was gone, and Potter was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking her pulse. A moment later a thermometer was in her mouth, and Potter was asking her what seemed to be an unending series of questions about the state of her health. Finally he got to his feet, pulled a blanket over her, and instructed her to get some sleep.

Janet looked at him curiously. "But I'm not sleepy," she protested. She paused, then: "I just had a bad moment, because of the heat downstairs."

Potter peered at her over the tops of his glasses, taking in her condition.

"Are you sure?" he asked pointedly.

Janet sighed. Though she was barely starting to show the doctor seemed to have guessed the truth with one shrewd glance. Still, he seemed to be waiting for her to acknowledge it. When she only smiled wanly, he shrugged.

"It's probably the stress of the last few days," he said, adding, "On the other hand, it could be something else, a touch of the flu or some bug or other. I'll tell you what you do. You get some sleep, and tomorrow I want you to come to my office and we'll take a look. All right?"

Janet lowered herself gratefully into the pillows, as Potter closed the door behind him. She was tired, she didn't feel good, and if she at least feigned sleep, then she would be left alone. Otherwise-

She had a vision of all the women of Prairie Bend, each one just like all the others, parading through her room, clucking over her, fussing at her, offering her homemade soup.

But even that vision, like the phrase "Mark's Janet" a little earlier, was somehow comforting. Totally alien from her life in New York, but nonetheless comforting. Slowly, she let herself drift into sleep.

"When are you going home?" Ryan Shields asked his cousin. After some initial suspicious circling of each other, the two boys had formed an alliance as the day had gone on, and after Michael's mother had been taken upstairs, they had finally escaped from their grandmother's living room. Now Ryan, ignoring the fact that he was wearing his Sunday suit, sprawled on the patchy green beneath the immense elm tree that shaded the yard between the house and the barn. He stared curiously up at Michael. Even though Michael was a year younger than himself, and three inches shorter, Ryan wasn't at all sure he could take him in a fight. Indeed, an hour ago he'd given up even considering the possibilities, after Michael had rescued him from the clutches of his Grandmother Shields, who never failed to treat him as if he were still four years old.

From his perch on the rotting rope swing, Michael gave an experimental kick that barely set the device in motion. "I don't know," he replied. "I guess in a few days."

Ryan frowned. "That's what my dad said you'd do. But I think my mom wishes you'd stay here."

Michael cocked his head. "Why would she want that?"

"Search me," Ryan replied. "All I know is that they got in a big fight about it on the way over here. Well, it started to be a fight, anyway." He paused and looked down, studying a blade of grass he'd plucked from the lawn as if it fascinated him. Not looking at Michael, he said, "Did your mom and dad fight?"

Michael shook his head. "Hunh-unh. At least not when I was around. Do your folks fight a lot?"

Ryan nodded. "Mostly about this place. Mom hates it here. Today, she said your dad was right to leave when he did."

Suddenly Michael brought the swing to a halt, and joined his cousin on the ground. "Did she ever say how come Dad left?"

"Hunh?"

Michael, in unconscious imitation of his cousin, plucked a blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth. "I always thought Dad just didn't want to be a farmer. But that seems kind of stupid. I mean, just because he wasn't a farmer isn't any reason not to come and visit, is it?"

"Nope," Ryan agreed. "My dad doesn't farm. What does that have to do with it?"

Michael rolled over and stared up into the elm tree, and for a long time the two boys were silent. When at last he spoke, Michael's voice trembled. "Did-did you ever think about your dad dying?"

Ryan shifted uncomfortably, then glanced away from Michael. "Sure. Doesn't everybody? Except-"

"Except what?" Michael asked.

"Well, I guess I only thought about it 'cause I knew it wasn't really gonna happen."

Suddenly Michael sat up, and his eyes fixed on his cousin. "I used to think about my dad dying when he went skydiving. That's like falling. Do you think me thinking about it could have made it happen?"

"That's crazy," Ryan replied. "You can't make something happen just by thinking about it. Besides, what happened to your dad was an accident, wasn't it?"

Michael nodded, but his eyes were uncertain.

"Then it wasn't your fault." Suddenly both boys sensed a presence nearby, and looked up to see their grandfather looming over them. They scrambled to their feet, selfconsciously brushing the dust and grass from their clothes.

"That'll make your mothers real thrilled with you," Amos Hall commented. "What's going on out here?"

"We were just talking," Ryan told him.

"About what?"

The two boys glanced at each other. "Things," Michael replied.

"Things," Amos repeated. He fixed his eyes on Ryan. "You know what I was just saying to your grandma a couple of minutes ago? I was saying that I'll bet those two boys are sitting out there discussing 'things.' And do you know what she said?"