Tommy was tired and well-fed. Laid out in the dark, across the same quilt he'd teethed on, he was as close to cool as it was possible to be.

It wasn't that he couldn't get to sleep, but that it kept going wrong once he did. First he felt face-down, hands and nose in shallow water–not drowning, but tense and dreadful, like he'd just been pushed–it was someplace gray and cold, with dark, smooth stones, somewhere he had never been–then he rolled onto his back, and tried to find something good to think about, something dry. But before he could, he was underwater, in the dark. It was silent and he realized, in horror, that he was breathing, but could not move. He had hardly blinked that away when he felt himself drop suddenly–

Tommy lifted his head and took some deep breaths. Eventually his heartbeat slowed, and he was just plain tired again. He was gripped by an instinct he had not had in many years; to cover himself completely, to pull himself far enough beneath the covers nothing could reach him. It was more comforting, as thoughts go, than he would have expected.

Tommy thought about the devil. He kept his eyes peeled 'til he was thinking about the quilt again, and then he was asleep.

"So she really doesn't know?"

"No sir, she don't know nothin'!"

"No sir," repeated Alvinelle. She was a guest in June and Maureen's bed. The three of them, plus Lyssie, sat Indian-style in conference beneath the sheet.

"Ain't it tragic?" June flew a hand to her chest.

"Gee," said Lyssie. She thought for a moment, grave as ever. She was the oldest by what must have been a very serious eleven months. She and June were both ten until the first of August. "Guess that means they never told her when they sent him up to the penal farm. The police or the judge or whomever."

"Or they did, and she was so devastated she couldn't bear remembering," posited June.

"Yeah," breathed Maureen. Alvinelle nodded, mouth and eyes both wide.

"It makes sense," said Lyssie, slowly. "You can't hardly blame her, though."

"Lord, no! Imagine hearin' your husband'd been in some kinda train wreck, then soon as seems he might could live, bam! He's throwed in prison. And you're all alone in the world–"

"With seven hungry mouths to feed–"

"Six, Starla weren't born yet."

"–six hungry mouths to feed. That'll get you to the end a' your tether in no time flat."

"Ain't like she went crazy, though," said Lyssie.

"Not really, just the slightest bit," said Maureen. "Like how Fibber McGee forgets when Molly ain't around!"

"'Cause he miss her so dear."

"So he says goodnight to her anyhow!"

"Sure he's foolish, but that's love, right there. And they is married. In real life."

"I wonder if we shouldn't say something, though." Lyssie bit her lip. "Might be less of a shock coming from us."

"No!" shrieked Maureen.

"Shh!" June leaned in. "Lyssie, don't you tell her! It'll break her heart!"

"We can't break her heart!" Alvinelle glanced guttedly between them all.

Lyssie nodded solemnly. "It's true."

"We gotta be strong for her."

"It's our duty."

"It's tough, but we gotta!"

"Yeah." Lyssie considered it all for another second. She enjoyed the idea more each second. "Alvinelle, you don't say a word to Xanthe and Patty, got that? We gotta protect them, too."

"From the hard truth."

"Mm-hm."

The sound of footsteps sent them scrambling, Alvinelle back nextdoor and Lyssie back into her cave. The bedsprings were squealing when the door opened, but the girls themselves were sprawled like battlefield dead, and breathing slow.

This time Pete and Delmar shared the bench. Pete had given up on reading the paper and Delmar had found a pocket knife somewhere to chip at a corn cob with.

"We oughta get us some clothes," said Pete. "Some nice pre-sennibal clothes that's clean. That ain't all scruffed-up and..." Pete eyed Delmar critically. His shoulder-seams hung halfway to the elbow. His trousers practically fit but Pete was reasonably sure Gramps had died in them. "Some clothes as fit. And match." Pete was the same size as Wash, so he'd landed what Wash wouldn't wear. Wash wasn't picky. "Look at us. Folks is gonna think we're bums."

"You think so?" said Delmar. He craned his neck. There was a loafer on every bench that didn't have two loafers, in more and less correct states of dress and consciousness than they. There were a lot of benches. Delmar had paid them no mind. Personally, he was better groomed than he'd been since roughly 1934. Everett invested in a fine razor, for a man's ablution might well be his absolution. At least that's what Everett said. Pete, for once, vehemently agreed. He was even cleaner than Delmar. Once his hair grew in he'd look practically regular. Delmar figured they'd impress FDR himself, if he should happen to roll by. He figured FDR was a pretty bright guy, and he'd tell Pete not to worry about lost opportunity and middle age and other things he couldn't change, and Pete couldn't be surly about it then, because it was the president. Delmar was not the president.

"I think we look purty good!" Delmar did say, though.

Pete shrugged. Delmar nodded, satisfied he'd made his point, and went back to his whittling; however, another thought occurred to him, and he paused to let it solidify.

"Say," he said at length. "If we're to be the best men, we gotta look...right, don't we?"

"Yes, we do," said Pete, trying his best to sound like he'd already had that in mind.

"So… what're we gonna do?" Delmar thought for a second and shook his head glumly. "You know I been banished from Woolworths."

"You need money if you wanna shop at Woolsworths."

"...Right."

"And we ain't got none a' that even if we is pardoned and brain-trusted."

"Guess so." Delmar shook his head again. "An' we cain't go lifting things offa folks's lines in case we gets ourselves un-pardoned."

"Hm."

"The Bible says you cain't steal, anyhow."

"I thought that was in the Cumanments."

"I thought those was part of the Bible."

"I don't think so." Delmar tossed his corncob towards a distant storm drain. It fell neatly through. That perked him up a little. He gave Pete his undivided attention. "No, definitely not," Pete went on. "They'se just scratched into some kinda tombstone. I seen a picture on it."

"Well that's my mistake, then."