Yuichi dried his hands on the towel around his neck. “You know,” Norio said, crushing out his cigarette in an ashtray, “it’s about time you got a heavy-equipment license.”

Yuichi turned toward him. “Yeah,” he replied listlessly, and began scrubbing his face with the towel. The more he scrubbed, the dirtier his face seemed to get.

“I’ll give you a week off next month. Why don’t you go get your license then?”

Yuichi pouted and nodded, but it was hard to tell if this meant he’d like to do it.

Norio had been waiting for a long time, hoping Yuichi himself would suggest that he take the licensing exam, but he never took the initiative.

As Yuichi was stowing away his rubber gloves in his bag Norio asked, “So, how are you feeling now?” Despite vomiting on the way to work, after they got to the site Yuichi worked quietly, as always. Norio had noticed, though, that he’d hardly touched the lunch he’d brought with him.

“You’ve got to take your grandpa to the hospital, right? As soon as you get home?” Norio asked.

“Probably after dinner,” Yuichi said absently as he shouldered his bag and stood up in the dusty wind.

Kurami, Yoshioka, and Yuichi climbed back into the van with Norio, just as they did every day.

The setting sun was bathing Nagasaki Harbor in red as they drove back down the highway, and Kurami popped open his usual can of shochu.

“You’ll be home in thirty minutes. Can’t you hold out till then?” Norio asked, frowning as the sharp smell of liquor hit him.

“I’ve been holding out for the last hour we were working, so how do you expect me to last another half hour?” Kurami gave a half-disgusted laugh, and lifted the single-serving can to his lips. Some of the liquid dribbled down and wet his thick whiskers. The window was open but still the van was filled with the odor of shochu and dried dirt.

“Hey, I heard a girl was murdered yesterday at the Mitsuse Pass in Fukuoka,” said Yoshioka, gazing out the window.

“They said she sold insurance. Her parents must be out of their minds,” said Kurami, who had a daughter about the same age, as he licked his shochu-smeared fingers.

Yoshioka, who lived with his common-law wife, didn’t have kids and probably couldn’t feel what the parents were going through. Yoshioka had never given them the details, but he lived with this woman in public housing, and though they’d been together ten years, she was still officially married to her husband. He changed the subject. “ Mitsuse Pass,” he said. “When I drove trucks I used to use that road all the time.

“Yuichi, you go driving over Mitsuse Pass often, don’t you?” Yoshioka asked.

Yuichi was staring out the window. He shifted his gaze to the interior of the van. His face was reflected in the rearview mirror.

Traffic in the opposite direction heading back to town was starting to back up. The cars of the shipyard workers formed a long chain that stretched down the road. The faces of the men in the cars, lit by the setting sun, looked somehow demonic, like hannya masks.

“You drive there pretty often, right? Mitsuse Pass?” Yuichi hadn’t replied, so Yoshioka repeated his question.

“I don’t much like… Mitsuse Pass. It’s creepy at night.”

Somehow this reply of Yuichi’s stayed with Norio as he continued to drive.

After letting out Kurami, and then Yoshioka, Norio headed for Yuichi’s house.

They left the highway and drove into a narrow alley, so narrow their side mirrors nearly scraped the nameplates on the front of the houses. The alley wound its way toward the fishing village. The coastline had nearly disappeared when the sea around the village had been filled in, but a tiny harbor still remained, with a handful of fishing boats anchored there. The part of the harbor surrounded by piers was calm, the only sound the occasional creak of the boats tugging at their lines.

There were several warehouses around the harbor, all with their shutters down. At first glance it seemed as though they were connected to the fishing industry, but in fact they contained boats for the annual Chinese-style Peron dragon-boat racing festival.

Dragon-boat racing was popular in this region, with districts competing against each other every summer. It was an inspiring sight to see a dozen or so men paddling in tandem, and every year the events attracted crowds of tourists.

“You’re going to be in the Peron next year, too, right?” Norio asked as he glanced at one of the warehouses, whose shutter was only half down. Yuichi had his bag in his lap and was getting ready to exit the van.

“When is it they start practicing?” Norio asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Same time as always,” Yuichi replied.

When Yuichi first participated in the Peron races, when he was in high school, Norio had been the district leader. Unlike the other young men, who were always moaning and groaning about practice, Yuichi silently paddled on. That was all well and good, but he overdid it, the skin on his hands scraped so raw that when it came time for the actual competition he couldn’t compete.

Ten years had passed since then and Yuichi had participated in the races every year. He always claimed he didn’t especially enjoy it-but when practice began, he was always the first one to show up at the warehouses.

“I think I’ll stop by and say hello.” Norio stopped his van in front of Yuichi’s house, and switched off the engine.

Yuichi, already halfway out, turned toward him.

“What time was it that you’re taking Uncle to the hospital?” Norio asked.

“After dinner,” Yuichi answered vacantly, and stepped down from the van.

Norio followed him in and as soon as he entered he was hit by the distinctive odor of a sick person’s house. Despite Yuichi’s presence, the house was that of an old couple, and as soon as you set foot in it, it was as if all color had drained away. The dirty red sneakers Yuichi kicked off at the entrance were the only bright spot.

“Fusae-san!” Norio followed Yuichi, who briskly strode inside, and called out toward the interior of the house. It bothered Norio how the young man just kicked off his shoes and didn’t neatly line them up at the entrance.

As Norio was removing his own shoes he heard Fusae’s voice: “Oh, is Norio with you? We haven’t seen him in quite a while.”

“You’re taking Uncle to the hospital?” Norio stepped up into the house as Fusae came out of the kitchen to greet him, wiping her wet hands on a dish towel.

“He just got released, but now he has to go in again.”

“Yeah, that’s what Yuichi was saying…”

Norio strode down the hall and slid open the door into Katsuji’s bedroom.

“Uncle, I hear you’re going back in the hospital? Bet you’d rather stay at home, huh?”

As soon as he pulled back the sliding door, Norio caught a faint whiff of urine. The streetlight outside shone into the room, mixing with the blinking fluorescent light hanging over the faded tatami.

“As soon as he goes to the hospital, he says he wants to come home. But once we’re home, he says he prefers the hospital. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”

Fusae switched the fluorescent light off, and back on again. In the futon Katsuji gave a muffled cough.

Norio sat down next to the old man’s bed and roughly pulled back the futon. Katsuji’s wrinkled face was revealed, resting on the hard pillow.

“Uncle,” Norio said, and rested his hand on the old man’s forehead. Maybe his own hand was hot, he thought with a start, for the old man’s skin was chilly.

“Where’s Yuichi?” Katsuji asked in a phlegmy voice, brushing Norio’s hand off his forehead.

Just then Yuichi could be heard clomping around upstairs, making the whole house shake.

“You can’t rely on Yuichi to do everything,” Norio said, his words aimed not just at Katsuji, but at Fusae standing behind him.

“We don’t,” Fusae pouted.