He watched all the news about the crash, before and after, and the endless investigations into it and who had instigated it and damn the paparazzi any...ays. He dwelled on it incessantly. He would not eat. He was skin and bones. We had to force him. It was then we had to accept the fact he was going mad. He had begun talking to Julian as though he were alive and in the bedroom with him. As though everything was as it had been before, with today and yesterday and last month and a century from now. It’s soft gurgling soothed. Eleanor Tuttle lived to the west, farther into the woods. She was a thin, young woman with three boys too young to be soldiers and too young to mention here. Her husband was killed near war’s end. More devout than I, she never missed a service, and she had farther to walk with three sons of wild temperament. I did not know her well. We spoke rarely. They lived hand to mouth from the woods, with a garden and chickens assisting. Church folk were especially charitable. More

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