Dead, he thought, and turned back to the other room.
Willow had her coat on, black wool with the high collar. She
had draped the couch throw over the boy and tucked in its edges
and was watching him intently, her slender hand stroking the soft
blond of his hair. She looked up when Len entered, and he winced
at the look on her face. That delicate, quizzical smile.
Len was helpless to answer. The letter had come from the state
some weeks ago, and it sat on the kitchen table for days, yielding
less and less to each reading until he couldn’t even tell what they
wanted, much less what he should do about it. But Len had gassed
up the truck and drove the six hours to find out. He held Willow’s
gaze and then broke from it to turn a bewildered eye toward the
boy. That was what he’d brought back. That one, there, inert and
lying quiet on the couch. It was all the answer he could give. “It’s
late, Willow. I could drive you home.”
She smiled and shook her head. Her yurt behind Bow Farm
was an easy walk away. “I’ll see you, Len.”
“All right, then.”
The open door let in a gust of night air. Len went to the closet
and drew out an extra blanket and opened it over the boy, and
then he went in to the bedroom and lay down beside his wife and fought for sleep.
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