The bulk of this story occurs several years before the manga or anime begin.

Note: I do not own Trigun or "Vash the Stampede": he belongs to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

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The Second Man

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Chapter 4: Return

Year 0092 month 2 day 11

The trip from the hospital back to town was uneventful.

I sat cross-legged in the back of the Thomas-drawn wagon, in the flat part, between the two injured men. I felt like my rear end was bruised, from spending so many hours in those none-too-comfortable hospital chairs. The long bumpy ride in the wagon didn't help that feeling at all.

I hoped that the ride was more comfortable for Hank and the second man than it was for me. However, from the manner in which they grimaced when the wagon was jostled by a significant bump in the road, I suspect that it wasn't.

They each lay on makeshift mattresses made of blankets. More blankets covered each of them from their shoulders to their toes. As we traveled, I gently patted their shoulders with my good hand from time to time. I spoke softly with them about the weather and other unimportant things, also. I tried to think of amusing things that I could say… things that might cheer them.

Both were awake, but kept their eyes closed because of the bright morning sunlight. They would smile or grimace by turns, depending on if I'd said something amusing or if the wagon had bounced in a manner that caused them pain.

The wagon finally arrived in our town, and stopped near the Sheriff's office. The place where the wagon stopped was also right across the street from the bank.

Two of Hank's kin were there, waiting for him. As soon as the wagon stopped, they helped him out of Ike's wagon and toward one of their own. Hank would be going to his daughter's house, and staying there until he felt well enough to return home and take care of himself. If his wife hadn't died two years ago, he might have gone directly home.

It had taken a lot of pleading on my part, but Dusty had finally agreed to let the second man stay in one of the unused bedrooms at our house. Only Dusty and I would live there, now. All of our brothers and sisters were either married, and living in their own houses, or else killed in the massacre.

It just hadn't felt right when I heard someone say that the second man could stay in one of the inn rooms at no charge. The idea of him being all alone, above that noisy saloon while he was trying to heal, just seemed all wrong. He should at least be in one of our houses, with someone to look after his needs.

Since Dusty spent most of his time at the Sheriff's office, I would be the only one at home. Having a house-guest wouldn't have much effect on my brother. After he finally agreed, Dusty was kind enough to bring all of the second man's belongings from the Sheriff's office and put them into the room where he would be staying. That included his strange leather clothes with the 1001 buckles and straps.

Nobody else had offered to take care of the second man, or even assist with caring for him.

I imagine that Hank might have offered, if he were fully recovered. But Hank still needed help himself, before he could extend assistance to anybody else.

I suspect that the reason nobody else had offered had to do with the need to tend relatives, both living and dead.

We were all deeply grateful that the murderer had been driven off before he might have come into town. Among other things, this meant that none of the children had been slaughtered. However, it also meant we had many newly orphaned young people who needed homes. Relatives and neighbors had to decide who would adopt these children.

Ike and Jane, for example, who had no children of their own, would be adopting the children of our dead brothers. They were trying to decide which house they would live in, and adjust to the switch from having no children to abruptly becoming parents of five.

Surviving next-of-kin needed to find the money to pay the December undertaker for the autopsies and preparations to bury their slain loved ones. They also had to decide what to do with the possessions of the deceased.

Because I was the youngest in my family, and unmarried, I had no such responsibilities. Awkward as it was, I understood that I would be alone in taking care of the second man.

So when the wagon stopped, I helped the second man to sit up and get off of it. I pulled his right arm around my shoulders. Dusty was just coming out of the Sheriff's office when I helped our houseguest to get off the wagon. The plan was that my brother would also help the second man to walk to our house.

Ike flicked the reins to drive away. Up to that point, everything had seemed normal.

However, things were not normal.

Gunshots were suddenly heard from the bank.

Ike, Dusty, and the other nearby townsmen drew and fired their own weapons.

I was very tired, both from not having slept well at the hospital and from all the jostling in the long wagon ride. At first, I wasn't sure if the gunfight was real or some strange dream. So I stood, as if rooted to the spot, too bewildered to act.

The second man immediately knocked me flat, and instantly rolled me onto my face. He quickly adjusted my left arm so that it was folded by my side against my ribs. That side faced the bank, and it meant that my bent left arm covered the part of my side where my heart and lungs are. He wrapped my right arm around my head, and, in the process, he wrapped his own right arm around my head, too. He lay on top of me while he adjusted my arms.

Then, still lying on top of me, he shifted his weight. I guess he was curious, and looking toward the bank to see what was happening.

Answering gunfire came from behind us, where Ike and most of the deputies were. It also came from nearly beside us, where Dusty was.

Nearly every man in town had been deputized at one time or another, usually to assist the sheriff in December when a posse was needed to hunt down a criminal who had run toward the desert. Ike often said that, as far as he was concerned, they remained under oath and should expect to act accordingly if there was ever any need.

So I wasn't too surprised that townsmen shot back at the robbers in the bank. The robbers might have been surprised, though.

I thought that I also heard gunfire very close - so close that it seemed to be coming from right over my head! But, surely, that was only my imagination. I'd never been caught in a real gunfight before, and it was ... alarming. That probably made it feel closer than it actually was.

It wasn't long before the gunshots stopped and everything went silent. I was surprised by how quickly things got quiet.

I could guess what had probably happened. Some dirty no-good bandits had heard about the massacre in our town, and that our sheriff and some of the deputies were going back and forth to the hospital and undertaker in December. They'd probably thought that they could rob our bank while he was away, and nobody would be around who could stop them.

Well, they thought wrong.

I heard Ike shout for the bandits to surrender. Their response was along the lines of how they might surrender if they received competent medical aid (but they didn't say it nearly that politely).

Ike effectively said they'd get whatever they needed, and the bandits agreed to surrender.

I could feel the second man relax, and lower his left arm. I thought I smelled smoke as his left arm came to rest on the ground beside me, but that must have been only my imagination. Why would he smell like gunsmoke? My imagination must really have been working overtime, to invent such things.

I hadn't thought I would be so frightened by a gunfight that my imagination would run that wild. However, it seems that I was.

The second man sighed, and then he rolled off me and sat up. "Are you ok?" he asked. He sounded sincerely concerned.

"I think so," I said, sitting up. "Are you?"

"I'll be fine," he said, and he smiled.

The days he'd spent in the hospital had worked a marvelous transformation on him. Oh, he was still bruised and his broken ribs would still take some time before they were fully healed. But his face was no longer swollen into misshapen lumps of flesh. His face was again shaped almost like a regular person's face, though there were still discolorations where he was bruised and a little minor swelling here and there.

I'd thought that he was reasonably handsome as I saw his face resuming its natural shape. When he smiled, however, even though his eyes still looked sad, he became the most beautiful person that I'd ever seen. I felt heat in my face as I smiled back.

"I'm glad you're ok," I said softly. "Let's go home."

He nodded and put his hands on either side of my waist. Then – while still sitting on the ground – he lifted me to my feet. He flinched and grimaced as he did that. It must have pulled on some of his sore muscles, or else his broken ribs.

I shouldn't have let him pick me up like that. Unfortunately, I couldn't undo what had already been done.

I carefully balanced myself, and then extended my good hand to him. He let me help him up to his feet. Then I pulled his arm back across my shoulders.

Dusty would be helping Ike and the other men with the bank robbers. Because of this, he couldn't help me get the second man to our house. Knowing that, I didn't wait for him.

The second man and I walked slowly toward the edge of town. Not far beyond that was the house where Dusty and I lived, and where the second man would be staying.

I tried to walk as evenly as possible. I didn't want to hurt him with my uneven gait. Although he could walk on his own, he was still very weak and prone to stumble if left to himself.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't get you a ride all the way to the house," I said.

"It's not a problem," he said. "I appreciate having a place to stay."

"Thank you for looking after me back there," I said softly. "I was so startled that I didn't do the smart thing and hit the ground immediately, as I should have. I hope that diving for the ground like that didn't hurt you."

"It's okay," he said. "I couldn't let them hurt you."

I stopped dead in my tracks, and turned my head to look at his face. He hadn't sounded like he was mocking me... could it be possible that he actually meant that?

He looked puzzled. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I ..." I began, but then I didn't know what to say or do. I felt heat in my face again, so I looked at the ground while I waited for my heart to stop pounding.

Finally, I said, "It's nothing," and continued moving toward the house.

There had been an old woman who lived in a house just past ours, back when I was small. She hadn't owned a riding-Thomas. So the town, or else her family, had placed rocks large enough to sit on along one side of the road. They were spaced several paces apart, but they could provide a welcome reprieve.

I had frequently made use of those rocks, to sit down and rest my feet. I used them on this trip, too. The second man also seemed to appreciate the opportunities to stop and rest.

We arrived at the house only a little before noon. I carefully helped him up the stairs to the second-storey room which Dusty and I had agreed he should use.

"The upstairs restroom is just down the hall, to the right," I told him. "I'll go back down and get you something to eat."

"I can eat later," he said. "You don't need to go downstairs, not just for me."

"I'm thirsty," I said, "and I can only imagine that you must be thirsty, too."

"Doesn't the upstairs bathroom have indoor plumbing?" he asked.

"Yes, it does," I said, and then I realized what he was suggesting. "I'll see if it has any cups in it."

"Thank you," he said, and smiled.

I turned away quickly, and hobbled to the bathroom. I felt heat in my cheeks, again. Why was I blushing? Was it only because he smiled? I needed to stop that. People would get ideas.

... but he looked so very handsome when he smiled!

I sighed and went into the bathroom. I rummaged through the cupboards. Somewhat to my own surprise, I actually found two cups on the upper shelves.

I rinsed them off and filled one with water. Then I hobbled back to the room where the second man waited.

"Here you are," I said, and extended his cup toward him.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the cup. He started drinking from it.

I hobbled back, filled the other cup, and returned. By that time, he'd finished his water.

"Was that enough?" I asked him. "I can get more, if you need or want it."

"I can get more, later, now that I know where," he said, smiling. "Thank you again."

"You're welcome," I said.

I tried not to think about how very welcome he was becoming. I didn't want to blush again. But my face still felt hot, so I must be blushing anyway.

He set the cup on the small bedside table by the oil lamp, matches, and small wind-up alarm clock that it already held.

"May I ask something personal?" he said.

"Well, you can ask," I said. "I don't guarantee any answers, though, especially if it's too personal."

He laughed. His laughter was brief, but it sounded genuine. "That's fair," he said. "Could I see your left hand?"

He extended his own left hand, as if he wanted me to put my crippled hand into his.

I blinked at him, surprised. "Nobody wants to touch this," I said, and pulled my left hand out of my jeans pocket. "It doesn't feel good."

"Does it hurt you, when it gets touched?" he asked.

"Not usually," I said, "but everyone who touches it has flinched away from it."

"Maybe they were just surprised," he said. "Please, may I?"

I stood there blinking for a short time, and then I drank my water. I put my cup on the table beside his, and then pulled the chair by the wall to across from where he sat on the bed.

"Okay," I said uncertainly.

I sat down and extended my misshapen, shrunken, swollen hand toward him.

"Thank you," he said softly.

He took a hold of my left forearm, so that my hand rested on his left forearm. Then he began to feel of my left wrist with his right hand. His calloused fingers were surprisingly gentle.

I flinched a little, just from being unaccustomed to anyone touching that wrist.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, looking and sounding concerned.

"No," I said. "I'm just not used to feeling anyone else touching that arm or hand. That's all."

He nodded. "Most people avoid touching my left hand, too," he said, "when they learn it's a prosthetic."

"It does look very normal," I said. "Does it feel as much like your right hand as it looks?"

"I can't feel through it," he said. "The hand gives me a sense of pressure, enough to keep me from breaking things. I can't feel heat or cold, rough or smooth, or anything else through it."

As he talked, he gently moved his fingers over my left wrist and hand. His expression looked like he was concentrating.

I was surprised that he wasn't acting disgusted, like everybody else did when they even looked at my left hand. Doctors don't like to touch that hand when I visit them, either.

"Have you ever thought of replacing it?" he asked.

"You mean like having a hook instead?" I said. "I'm not sure that would be much of an improvement."

He took my left hand entirely into his own right hand, and held up his left. "No," he said, "like this."

He spread the fingers, formed a fist and then opened it, and then he curled each finger individually against his palm. He demonstrated, with a few additional dexterous movements, how his prosthetic hand was as versatile as a normal hand.

"I might not be able to feel through it," he said, "but it is connected to my arm's motor control nerves. I can control it just like I control my normal hand."

I watched, fascinated, as every movement went smoothly. He had complete control of his artificial hand, wrist and fingers.

"Something like that would be an improvement," I whispered softly.

"I thought it might," he said. "It would hurt, a lot, to remove this and replace it with an artificial hand like mine. However, it should heal, over time, and mostly stop hurting."

"Mostly?" I said.

"Sometimes there are 'ghost' pains," he said. "Even though your hand isn't there anymore, you will occasionally feel pain that seems to come from where the hand used to be. It shouldn't happen often, but it probably will happen."

I figured he would know. I thought about it, as he continued holding my left hand with his right, and feeling of it.

"I have some of that now," I realized. "The nerve is already cut, so that's probably what it is when my hand starts hurting for no apparent reason."

He nodded, and opened his fingers, releasing my hand.

"May I see your right foot now, please?" he said.

"Okay," I said.

I was curious. I swung my foot up so that it rested on the bed beside where he sat.

"Thank you," he said.

He lifted my foot onto his knee. He carefully removed my boot and sock, and rolled up my jeans' hem twice. Then he started gently examining my ankle and foot, in the same manner as he had done with my hand.

I winced. I couldn't help it. That area is always sore.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Should I stop? I don't want to hurt you."

"It always hurts," I said, "no matter what."

He looked at me, and his sad eyes looked even sadder. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

I shrugged. "It's just the way it is," I said.

"It shouldn't hurt all the time," he said, frowning.

"It hurts every time I step on it," I said, "and every time it bumps into anything. If I'm holding still, especially if I have it propped up, it usually doesn't hurt unless I've used it a lot and it's gotten sore."

He nodded, and then looked down and continued gently feeling over my ankle and foot with his natural hand.

After he'd felt it over, he said, "May I have a pair of your shoes? It can be an old, worn-out pair."

"Why?" I said, completely confused.

"I know a doctor," he said, and lifted his left hand. He looked at me, and raised an eyebrow.

"We can't afford anything like that," I said quickly, while I looked longingly at his exquisite prosthetic. I'd told the truth. We couldn't afford even a cheap prosthetic, though I couldn't help wishing it were otherwise.

"You won't have to," he said. "A pair of your shoes. Please."

"I ... well, I guess I can get you a pair," I said uncertainly.

"Good," he said, and smiled.

I moved a bit more quickly than usual, to hide my face from him. I could feel the heat increasing in my cheeks, which told me that I was blushing again.

I picked up my boot and sock, and hurried across the hall to my room. I put the sock back on, and took off the other boot. I put away the boots I'd worn today.

I rummaged through my shoes and boots. I only had five pairs, all hand-me-downs. I chose the boots that were the most uncomfortable to wear. I hoped that nobody would notice, if I never wore those boots again.

I didn't really expect anything to come from giving him my boots. Still, it was a kind and generous thought he had. As far as I knew, nobody else had even considered fitting me with a working hand or foot.

I hobbled back to the room he was in, boots in hand. "Will these do?" I asked. "They never fit quite right, but always pinched some at the heel and toes."

"They're perfect," he said, reaching for them. "Thank you."

I gave him the boots. "You're welcome," I said. "My good foot is kinda big, isn't it?" I observed uncomfortably.

"That just means you have a good under standing," he quipped, smiling.

The second man's duffel bag, containing his belongings, rested on the floor nearby. He turned to put my boots into it.

It took a few heartbeats for me to "get" his pun. When I caught on to what he'd said, I groaned and rolled my eyes.

When he finished retying his duffel bag, he reached out his left hand toward me again. "May I hold your right hand for a moment, please?" he asked.

I frowned, puzzled, but extended my right hand.

He took my right hand, flashing a brief smile, and then placed my right hand flat against his left. He arranged our hands palm-to-palm, and stretched my fingers against his. My palm was as wide as his, but a little shorter. My fingers were shorter than his, too.

He traced the shape of my right hand against his left, using his right hand. He touched the end of each of my fingers, and also the places between my fingers where they attached to my hand.

"That should do," he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

He looked up at me, for I was standing while he sat on the bed. He extended his hands, letting my hand return to its place at my side.

He said, "Thank you."

I shrugged, again feeling heat in my face.

"I'll let you rest, for now," I said. "I'll be in the room right across the hall, if you need anything."

"Thank you, Martha," he said, "for everything."

"You're welcome," I said.

I picked up my cup from the bedside table, and hobbled across the hall. Just as I was sitting on my bed and putting the cup on my own bedside table, I heard a knock on the door downstairs.

"I'll get that," I said, loudly enough for him to hear.

I got up and hobbled into the hall. Through the open doorway of his room, I saw that the second man was still sitting on the bed. I waved at him as I passed. He waved back, and smiled at me again… and, again, seeing his smile made my face feel hot.

Stairs were always a challenge for me. Stairs had been involved in nearly half of the accidents responsible for my various scars.

So I held tightly to the railing with my good hand, and quickly yet carefully worked my way down the stairs.

I was surprised to see Joe's wife and eldest daughter on the porch, when I opened the door. Edith Brooke was carrying a bowl with two plates upturned over it, and the handle of some kind of serving utensil sticking out from under the plates. Her eight-year-old daughter, Bertha, carried a plate with a cloth over it. Wisps of steam arose from both, but the early afternoon breezes stole those wisps away before their scent could reach me.

"Hello," I said to them. "What can I do for you?"

"We brought lunch for you and the second man," Edith said.

"Oh, thank you!" I said. I opened the door wider, and moved back out of their way.

"Sally Thompson called all of our town's ladies to her house yesterday," Edith said as she stepped through the doorway. "We all agreed to take turns cooking meals, so that you can focus on just taking care of him. It's also a small thank you, and apology, to him. We'll keep bringing food for as long as he's here."

"I'm sure that he will appreciate this," I said. "My cooking isn't as good as yours. Thank you, very much."

"Where is he?" Bertha asked, looking around.

"Upstairs," I said.

Edith glanced down toward my feet, and I felt heat in my face again.

"Why don't we take this up to him now," Edith said. "You and he can eat, and we'll keep you company, and then we can take the dishes home. That should save somebody an extra trip to return the dishes, later on."

She smiled in a friendly manner, so I nodded. I didn't know what else to do.

So up the stairs we went, and a slightly awkward – but very tasty – lunch followed.

He was still sitting on the bed when we arrived.

"This is Edith Brooke, and her daughter Bertha," I said. "They were kind enough to bring a lunch for us."

He stood up and shook hands with each, saying the usual polite nothings that people say when they meet. However, he sounded more sincere than most people do under those circumstances. The Brookes responded in kind.

I didn't hear everything they said, because I was quickly hobbling to other rooms. I brought two more chairs into his room, one at a time, so that everybody could sit down comfortably without anybody (except the second man) needing to sit on the bed.

They had brought biscuits and a gravy that was thick with chunks of Thomas meat. It was Edith Brooke's specialty: the dish that everyone always hoped she would bring, whenever there was a potluck. She frequently took other recipes to the potlucks, but her biscuits and Thomas gravy were everyone's favorite.

I went back downstairs and got forks and spoons, and then returned.

Edith was kind enough to put biscuits on each plate, break them open, and then ladle the thick gravy liberally over them.

She led us in a brief prayer of thanksgiving, before we started eating.

He finished his portion, and then looked hopefully toward the bowl ... which still had a reasonable amount of gravy in it. Edith smiled, and gave him a second helping.

She, and sometimes her daughter, asked him questions while we ate. Bertha was both young and a little shy, so she didn't say nearly as much as her more talkative mother did.

Edith was just trying to be friendly. She wasn't known for being a gossip, nor for being excessively nosey, nor for endless prattling on about herself. Most of her questions were about things that he might have seen while wandering in the desert. She did not ask him why he traveled, nor anything particularly personal beyond inquiries about his health.

She received nods, headshakes, or shrugs from him in response. He didn't pause in his eating. I wondered if he was that hungry, or if he just didn't want to answer the questions any more fully.

If she asked a question which could not be answered with merely "yes" or "no," he would briefly answer precisely what she had asked. He spoke politely, though without any elaboration.

There was only one exception: one pair of questions that he answered more fully.

"From what Hank and Mildred told us," Edith said, "the killer seemed to know you. Do you also know him?"

He was very still for the space of a few heartbeats. He glanced at me, and then he looked toward her. He nodded, and then he continued eating without saying a word.

"Was it a coincidence, or were you following him, when you came here?" Edith asked.

For a moment, he was again very still. Then he finished chewing his current mouthful, and swallowed. He didn't look up from his plate.

"He killed someone very special to me," the second man said, very softly. "I've been following him, one way or another, ever since."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I said.

Edith and Bertha said the same.

After that, Edith talked about how grateful we all were that he had come and helped to save Hank's life. She carried on a bit about how there was no telling if the killer would have stopped short of slaughtering the whole town, if the second man hadn't come and scared him away.

The second man didn't reply as she spoke. Instead, he just continued eating and staring down at the plate of food on his knees. Yet his cheeks gradually changed from pale to pink to rosy. From the change in the color of his face, we all knew that he'd heard every single grateful and flattering word that she had said.

He did full justice to the food they brought, eating steadily until his second helping was done. I ate a little more slowly, but also finished my own portion. I like her biscuits and Thomas gravy, too.

When we had both finished eating, Edith said, a little bashfully "I hope you liked the biscuits and gravy. It was made from a family recipe, one that most people in the town here seem to enjoy."

"It was very good, thank you," he said, and smiled at her.

I felt a strange twist in my stomach, as if I didn't like it when he smiled at her.

Suddenly I was terribly confused. Why shouldn't he smile at her? He was a kind, friendly person. I shouldn't be surprised that he would smile at people. He probably smiles at most of the people he meets. I certainly had no reason to dislike it when he did.

What was the matter with me today?

"Yes," I managed to say to Edith, around the lump I felt in my throat, "thank you."

"Well, I suppose we'd best be going," Edith said. She still looked at him. "I hope you recover swiftly, though of course we'll be glad for you to stay as long as you like."

"Thank you again," he said. He stood up and shook hands with both Edith and Bertha again, and then he sat down.

"I'll see you to the door," I said to them.

"Thank you," Edith said.

She smiled at me, which was unusual. Most of the time, she just ignored me. She never took it far enough to qualify as a snub, the way some people did, but she rarely acknowledged me as she had just done.

After I had thanked them again and shown them out, I put the forks and spoons into the kitchen sink. Then I returned upstairs.

"Martha," he said.

That was all. Just my name.

"What can I do for you?" I hobbled to his doorway, and looked in.

"Please come in and sit down," he said softly. "They reminded me of another question I'd like to ask you."

I limped into the room. I dragged the two chairs between the bed and the door against the wall, one at a time. Then I sat in the third chair, the one that was closest to the foot of the bed.

"What is it?" I asked nervously.

"In the hospital," he said, "when I asked how everyone was doing, you told me about Hank, the children, and the other townsfolk. You never told me how Mildred is doing."

He was right. I hadn't. I didn't want to talk about Mildred, not yet. It hurt too much.

"Please," he said gently, "tell me."

He was sitting on the bed, with his hands on his knees. He looked at me attentively.

I looked down at my own knees, and took a deep breath.

"She asked about you," I said. "She asked about the children first, and then about Hank, and then about you." I blinked, but failed to keep the tears in my eyes instead of running down my cheeks. "Joe walked in. I asked her what had happened, and she told us. Then she asked about you, again. It was almost the last thing she ever said."

I looked up at him, and saw him blink once. Then he closed his eyes, and tears fell down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he said, and bowed his head. "I'm so sorry! I failed her. If I'd only come sooner…" His hands clenched into fists.

I reached out to him, placing my right hand over his. I'd deliberately reached for his natural hand, the one that could feel it.

"That wasn't your fault," I said. "You could not possibly have known –"

"I knew what he was," he said. "I should have gotten up earlier, moved faster, and come sooner. If I had…"

"You're only human," I said, and squeezed his hand. I felt him flinch, which puzzled me, but I continued talking. "You can only do your best, just like the rest of us."

He sat still, quietly crying, for what felt like a long time. I didn't look at the clock, so I don't know exactly.

Finally, he spoke very softly. "Will there be a funeral?" he asked. "They will bury her, right?"

"There will be a funeral tomorrow morning," I said. "It will be for everyone who… died… a few days ago. We'll bid them all farewell together, since we lost them all together."

"Do you think anyone would mind if I went, too?" he asked.

"I'm sure you'd be welcome," I said. "Like Edith said, if you hadn't come, we might not be here to bury them."

"Thank you. I… should probably try to rest, now."

"Of course," I said. "I think I'll try to nap, too, until someone comes with dinner."

I patted his hand, and then went back to my own room. I lay down, and was soon asleep.

...

Note: for anyone unfamiliar, a "Thomas" is an odd birdlike creature, which bears some resemblance to an ostrich with a turkey's head. It is found on the planet where the Trigun adventures occur. Thoma are used as livestock, saddled riding beasts, and as wagon-pullers. So "Thomas meat" would come from the bird, not from anybody who chanced to have that name. By strange coincidence, I don't recall anyone named "Thomas" in any of the canon stories... -mischievous grin-