The shack was barely erect, weathered sideboards flecked with old red-barn-paint, a sagging tar-paper roof. Inside there was a crude wooden shelf and mouldering mattress, a porcelain bowl and mug, in one corner a pyramid of rust-rimmed tin cans. The unaccustomed sunlight through the open door raised up ancient slumbers of dust. Anna slid down to the mattress. Her eyes were distant and she was panting.

Travis went outside with Nancy. “We can’t keep the truck,” Nancy said. He nodded. “We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have us arrested.”

“This is just the beginning. We bought ourselves a lot of trouble just now, you know that, Travis?” “I guess I do.”

She shrugged at the switchman’s shack. “I suppose I don’t look like much—next to her.” “You look fine.”

It was a consolation, and she nodded, accepting it. “Well. We need to get that truck back before somebody sees it here. Travis? I can drive it back to the house. Creath doesn’t have anything against me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“And then come back?” He added, “We need to talk. Make plans.” “Sure.”

She drove away.

Travis went back to the hovel.

It would take some cleaning up. The corners were black with spider webs. Carpenter ants moved in the wallboards. It was for certain not a good place to bring a sick person… but Anna was not sick, exactly, or so she said; and anyway they had no choice. A month, she had said. And then what? What consummation was she waiting for? But he could not force his thoughts that far ahead. The needs of the moment had assumed a dire priority.

He looked at her on the mattress. Her eyes were closed; she might have been asleep. He thought again how delicate she was. Without conscious volition he moved to the side of her, put his hands, gently, on her shoulders. It was the first time he had touched her. Even this trivial intimacy was shockingly intense. Her skin was cool; it was as if he could feel her fragility under his fingers. She stirred but did not open her eyes.

It was strong, he thought, this thing that was special about her—stronger the closer he got to her. Touching her, it seemed as if she had come somehow to embody everything connected with the female sex, was not so much a single woman as an aggregation of femininity, mother and lover, womb and vagina, an exploration and a welcoming home—he blushed at his own thoughts. But it was so. Not merely carnal, as his contact with Nancy had been. There was nothing base in this. The possibility of defilement was not in her. He thought of what Creath had said. And maybe Liza knows as much about me as that Wilcox girl knows about you, you think perhaps! Oh, we are that much the same.

Travis could not deny the truth of it. But here, for now, it had ceased to matter. He stroked her perfect cheek, and she trembled.

“Anna?”

Her eyes were still closed. The tremor in her grew stronger.

She twitched in his arms, then convulsed.

Abruptly he was frightened. “Anna? Anna!”

She was shaking now, rivers of mysterious energy pouring through her. Her eyes came open suddenly—

And Travis gazed into them.

It was a mistake. In that moment she was not Anna Blaise. She was not even a woman.

Not human.

Her skin felt dusty. Moth-wing skin. Her eyes were huge undifferentiated pupils dilated beyond credibility. He squeezed his eyelids together to shut out the vision, but that only made it worse: on some inner movie screen she was even more acutely visible. He saw her, still somehow Anna, stripped of fat until her bones shone like porcelain through parchment skin, those huge eyes radiating blue fire, rib cage palpitating, fibrous veined wings like rice paper unfolding wetly behind her. And she was watching him, watching.

He thought of the carpenter ants at work in the rotting wood. He thought of termites, beetles, night moths banging against window panes.

He stumbled back from the mattress, revulsion searing through him.

She sat up suddenly—now human again, at least superficially—and stared at him. “Travis! Travis, I’m sorry—I couldn’t help it—”

He could not speak. He thought of biting into a ripe fruit and finding some foul decay inside. He thought of stepping into a rotten log. He thought— could not restrain himself from thinking—of his mother vomiting blood into the stained farmhouse toilet bowl, the wages (he had thought then) of sin, of her riding to the doctor when she was almost too weak to survive the journey, of the word “cancer” and of his fear of it as she declined toward death in her stinking bedroom…

…and it seemed to him, in that twisted and infinite moment, that he had penetrated to the heart of things: under female softness, this burrowing nightmare,- under the veneer of life, death…

…and he threw open the door and ran gasping for the air and the clean river water; knowing, despite the way she pleaded from the doorway, that he could not go back there, could not go back in there, no, not ever again.

Stick with us,” Deacon had said, and he repeated it in the days and nights that followed until it became a litany, a kind of prayer. Bone listened, Bone nodded. Deacon and Archie had fed him_; they had refrained from stealing his coat when they might have. In these,kindnesses they had earned his loyalty.

The mountains were behind them. The land now was flat, often arid, summer-baked. The sky was as huge and tangibly present as the earth, blue or arched with cloud; here earth and sky met on equal terms. The sound of the wind and of the trains seemed embedded always in an immensity of silence.

In each town they were differently received. In one small grain town they were chased a good quarter mile by the yard bulls. In another a brake-man attempted to shake them down for money; they refused to pay and had spent the night hidden in a reefer car. Bone woke up one morning and found that the redball they were riding had drawn to a stop miles from any habitation because, Archie told him, a band of indigent farmers had blocked a trestle to protest grain prices. Fearful of violence, the three of them crept away from the freight and followed a dirt road at cross angles to the tracks.

They were in bad financial straits. Deacon had been bringing in oddments of food or coffee or bootleg liquor with his small cache of money; but he had exhausted the bulk of that and gambled away the rest in a game of railyard craps two nights before. “That’s all right,” Deacon said jovially. “I’m to money like a sieve is to water. It’s okay. You rule money or money rules you. I’m a free man, by God, yes I am. We all are. Deacon, Archie, and Bone. Free men.”

Archie said that was fine but where would they get the withal to eat?

“Money comes,” Deacon said. “Even in bad times. I remember in 1914—”

But Bone just smiled vacantly and looked at the sky. Deacon “remembered” often and seldom to any purpose. His talk faded in Bone’s mind to a drowsy hum, as pleasant and as significant as the droning of the insects. The sky in this checkered land was powder-blue, cloudless and fathoms deep. Bone walked, his thoughts extinguished. The time passed.

Now they were far down this road; night was only a few hours away, and Bone was terribly hungry. Bone felt the Calling in him, a deep persistent summoning; but he had discovered that he could ignore it for a time. All these commonplace physical demands— hunger and pain and the Calling—could be suppressed. For a time.

Deacon pointed out the grain elevator on the horizon. “Town ahead. Maybe there we get something to eat.”

“Huh,” Archie said despondently.

Deacon shook his head. “Doubt,” he said. “Doubt and negativism.”

“What do you think,” Archie said, “they’re gonna throw food at us? Multiply it, maybe^:—like the loaves and fishes?”